























V* X > 



BY 

OSSIP SCHUBIN 


Specially translated for Once a Week by' 
MRS. ELLEN WAUGH 


“ Life is a comedy to those who think, 

A tragedy to those who feel.” 

— Horace Walpole 


New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
1893 






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ONE OF US. 


BOOK FIRST. 


CARNIVAL. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was between 1860-70, and in Rome. Soci- 
ety had split up into the monde noir and the 
monde blanc, and had not yet assumed the 
slightest appearance of reuniting in a monde 
gris. 

The Holy Father had intrenched himself in 
the Vatican, behind his prestige of martyrdom. 
The King had begun to hold his court at the 
Quirinal. 

Among the most distinguished Austrian fami- 
lies wintering in Rome were the Otto Ilsen- 
berghs. Count Otto Ilsenbergh, one of the 
chiefs of Austrian feudalism, was residing in 
Rome ostensibly for his health, but, in reality, 
to be at the fountain-head of the Vatican for 
the purpose of compiling a certain “ History of 
Miracles,” which has recently been published 
under a certain curious pseudonym. He had 
taken up his abode with the countess and a 
whole regiment of big and little auburn-haired 

( 3 ) 


4 


ONE OF US. 


Ilsenberghs on the Corso in Palazzo — an im- 
mense historical mansion with cold stone stair- 
cases and spacious suites of apartments, seem- 
ing', by reason of their vastness, far more suited 
to gatherings of conspirators than to harmless 
routes and dances. 

The countess received every evening, when 
nothing more amusing was on the tapis. She 
was by birth a Princess Anerstein, of' the line 
of Anerstein-Zolling, whose women are noted 
for their white eyebrows and their rigid notions 
of morality. 

The Ilsenbergh soirees were very popular; 
there was an atmosphere of ease about them. 
Smoking was allowed in the drawing-room — the 
countess herself smoked, sometimes even rega- 
lias. 

It was the beginning of December. The 
heavy rain came dashing audibly against the 
windows. In a spacious apartment, far too 
large for comfort, the walls of which were 
decorated with frescoes, sat Count Ilsenbergh 
at a dainty davenport, evidently only intended 
for the fabrication of love letters, writing busily 
at an article for Our Times , a journal of strong 
feudal proclivities, patronized by the count and 
supported by the Austrian nobility, but read by 
no one, save hy the Liberal press when on the 
hunt after reactionary extravagances. 

Count Ilsenbergh was in low spirits. Austrian 
statecraft had just crowned its ever-brilliant 
achievements by proclaiming for the fourth 
time within the last three years a “ New Era,” 
and, throwing all established convictions to the 


ONE OF US. 


5 


winds, had gathered together an ultra-Liberal 
Ministry, who not only made the largest of 
promises, but would inevitably swell the ranks 
of the Ring Strasse salons by the addition of 
some half-dozen new-made peers. Count Ilsen- 
bergh prophesied the end of the world. 

The countess, reclining in an easy-chair by 
the fireplace, a piece of marvelously exquisite 
Renaissance workmanship, was reading. The 
choicest editions of Mommsen and Ampere lay 
scattered about upon the tables, but the book 
in her hand was a well-worn novel from the 
circulating library. 

A tall, fresh-colored, sandy-haired woman of 
somewhat large proportions and insignificant 
features, but with small, well-shaped hands and 
feet, Countess Ilsenbergh spoke French and 
German with a strong Viennese accent. Her 
style of dress was old-fashioned and her move- 
ments heavy ; yet withal, to the initiated eye, 
she was unmistakably the lady and aristocrat. 
An imposing feature at all court festivities, she 
never stumbled over her train, and bore the 
weight of the family diamonds with high-born 
indifference. The portiere was drawn back, 
and General von Klinger announced. 

General von Klinger was an old Austrian 
cavalryman who, having had the good fortune 
to distinguish himself and his regiment at Sa- 
dowa, had, in disgust at the subsequent “na- 
tional disgrace,” sent in his resignation ; and 
had since devoted himself and his title of gen- 
eral, conferred upon him on his resignation, to 
the study of painting. 


6 


ONE OF US. 


As an army man he had been looked upon as 
an artistic genius, and was famed for the skill 
with which, with his gold pencil, he would 
* sketch on the back of an old letter or visiting 
card a race-horse in full gallop, the jocke} 7 bend- 
ing low, the rapidity with which these works 
of art were accomplished being one of their 
great sources of admiration. Since then he had 
<<r studied art ” in Paris, had had his pictures 
refused three times by the Salon hanging com- 
mittee, and had finally decided to take this ex- 
pression of opinion as a special distinction, thus 
following the example of Rousseau, Delacroix 
and others, like sufferers with himself. As a 
genius incompris he had left Paris for Rome, 
where, in the Piazza Navona, he had installed 
himself as artist in a charming studio, thrown 
open daily from three to five o’clock, and a 
favorite resort of society in Rome. 

People smiled at the old soldier’s art, without 
finding him in any way an object of derision ; he 
was universally respected as a man of honor and 
a gentleman. 

Like many old bachelors whose celibacy has 
dated from an unhappy love affair, his cynical 
bitterness had a background of sentiment ; in 
other words, he was a pessimistic idealist. A 
handsome, military-looking old man with stiff 
shirt collar and splendid eyes, wherein lurked 
a world of romance, he was a special favorite 
with all the great ladies in Rome. 

“ How nice of you to have looked in upon us, 
general,” was the countess’s greeting. “ Hor- 


ONE OF US. 


7 


rid weather, is it not ? Come to the fire and try 
to get warm.” 

The count, looking up from his writing, said : 
“ How d’ye do, general ? ” then bent again over 
his article, with an apologetic “ Such an old 
friend as you will forgive my just finishing 
these few lines — three words and I have done. 
These are serious times ; in which it behooves 
every man to stand firm to his colors,” and 
this ardent defender of feudalism mournfully 
dipped his pen again in the ink. 

The general begged him not to disturb him- 
self on his account. The countess had just 
begun to speak about a musical soiree at which 
they had been the night before when her hus- 
band, dashing a line under his completed article, 
exclaimed triumphantly : 

“ There, that will give them something to 
solve ! ” and joined his wife and the general by 
the fire. 

A carriage passing below drew up. 

That must be Truyn ; he was to arrive last 
night,” said the countess. And at that moment 
Count Truyn was announced. 

Erich Truyn was at that time a handsome 
man of about thirty, with hair already turning 
gray, and cold, distant expression. He went 
by the name of Truyn frappe because he always 
gave the impression of having been frozen to a 
crystalline icicle. His frigid exterior obtained 
him the reputation of excessive haughtiness, 
which was a calumny. He had, in reality, the 
sweetest of dispositions, what was set down 
as haughtiness in him being merely the shyness 


8 


ONE OF US. 


of an oversensitive nature, which, having once 
brought him into ridicule by its extreme ideal- 
ism, now sought jealously to conceal itself from 
the scorn of the world by a cold exterior. 

“ Ah, Truyn, at last ! ” exclaimed the count- 
ess, with her gracious cordiality. “ How are 
you ? ” 

“ Much as usual,” was the reply. 

“ How is your wife ? ” asked Ilsenbergh. 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Still at Nice ? ” 

“I do not know.” As he spoke his face as- 
sumed a more than ever cold and icy look. 

“Are you making a long stay in Rome?” 
the countess now asked, anxious to turn the 
conversation to a less painful theme. 

“ As long as it agrees with my little com- 
rade, and she can be happy here,” replied 
Count Truyn. He always called his little 
twelve-year-old daughter and only child his 
comrade. 

“You must bring Gabrielle very soon to see 
us,” observed the countess. “Mimi and Lint- 
schi are about her age.” 

“ I hope to bring her the very next time I 
come, countess, but she is, unfortunately, so 
very shy that she does not get on with stran- 
gers ; though she has struck up quite a warm 
friendship with the general, and for our cousin 
Sempaly.” 

“ Nicki ! ” exclaimed the countess, amazed. 
“ Has he the patience to amuse children ? ” 

“ He has quite a special talent that way. He 
was dining with us to-day.” 


ONE OF US. 


9 


“ He is unaccountable,” lamented the count- 
ess. “He hardly ever comes near us.” 

A light step was heard in the anteroom, and 
Count Sempaly was announced. 

“ Inpus in fdbula ,” observed Ilsenbergh. 

The new arrival, a young man about eight or 
nine-and-twenty, was of middle height, of slight 
but muscular build, unusually handsome, with 
dark, regular features, an insinuating smile, 
and a pair of speaking deep-blue eyes under 
long, dark lashes. With that insinuating smile 
of his, he would say the most audacious things, 
nor could any one determine whether the light 
in those blue eyes meant a flash of anger or a 
ray of sunshine. 

With easy gallantry kissing the tips of the 
countess’s fingers, he saluted the gentlemen|with 
his wonted air of brusk cordiality, and sub- 
sided on to a tabouret by the side of the lady 
of the house. 

“ It is quite a treat to see you at last, Nicki,” 
said the countess, with an air of affectionate 
reproach. “You never come near us; and one 
hardly ever meets you anywhere now. How is 
it that you shut yourself out of society in this 
manner ? ” 

“ Because he finds more congenial amusement 
elsewhere,” tittered Ilsenbergh, half aloud. 

A severe look from his wife here admonished 
the speaker to assume a more dignified de- 
meanor. 

“ I find I cannot manage it,” replied Sem- 
paly.. apologetically and with a half-smile. “ I 
really have too much to do.” 


10 


ONE OF US. 


“ Too much to do ? ’’ asked Truynj with quiet 
irony. “ What, in the political world ? Any- 
thing- new ? ” 

“ The latest thing out is a striking leading 
article in the lemps, upon the f Ewer and Basin 
Question/ ” replied Sempaly, with affected 
gravity. 

“The Ewer and Basin Question? ” they all 
repeated, in astonishment. 

“Yes,” continued Sempaly, sweetly; “the 
facts of the case are these : The young Duke 

of B n, recently entering upon his year’s 

military service in Paris, was most unpleasantly 
surprised to find that he was not only expected 
to keep in barracks with the other privates, but 
that he had to perform his daily ablutions at 
the pump. This so incensed his ducal mamma 
that she presented herself at the War Office to 
request that a separate washing apparatus be 
arranged for her son. After lengthened delib- 
eration, the War Office has decided to reject her 
application, on the grounds that this separate 
toilet arrangement would militate against the 
undying principles of ’89.” 

“ Hardly possible ! ” commented Truyn. 
Ilsenbergh shrugged his shoulders, and the 
countess inquired, naivety : 

“What are the undying principles of ’89?” 

“Certain idealistic pacific conventions be- 
tween the canaille and the aristocracy,” said 
Sempaly, calmly. “ Or, if you prefer it, a first 
surrender of prejudice to the claims of higher 
humanity,” he added, humorously. 

The countess remained as wise as she was 


ONE OF US. 


11 


before. Sempaly, with a satirical smile, fanned 
himself with a Japanese hand screen and Ilsen- 
bergh remarked : 

“ Aha ! you have turned Democrat, Sempa- 
ly ! ” 

44 From a bird’s-eye point of view,” observed 
Truyn, dryly. His cousin’s Liberal proclivities 
inspired him with but little confidence. 

4 4 1 am always a Democrat, after having read 
the 4 Middle Ages,’ ” said Sempaly. The 44 Mid- 
dle Ages ” was the title he gave to his cousin’s 
reactionary paper. 44 Moreover, jesting aside, 
I am a Liberal by conviction ; but, none the less, 
I cannot see the growing power of the Radicals 
without some apprehension. Tims ! I had for- 
gotten to give you some news that will interest 
you, Fritzi ! The Reds are victorious through- 
out Paris and the King has been shot at in 
Madrid ! ” 

44 Horrible ! ” shuddered the countess. 44 We 
shall see another Commune ! ” 

44 Ninety-three,” remarked Truyn, quietly. 

44 We positively need to draw a cordon round 
the Austrian monarchy to protect it from the 
encroachments of the plague of democracy,” 
observed Sempaly, gravely. 44 Ilsenbergh, you 
had better bring forward a motion to that effect 
in the Lords’.” 

44 Your bad jests are out of place,” said the 
countess. 44 Things really are growing seri- 
ous.” 

44 Not with us, so far,” said Truyn. 44 Our 
people are much too long-suffering.” 


12 


ONE OF US. 




“They are sound at heart,” put in Ilsen- 
bergh, pathetically. 

“They have not much notion of freedom as 
yet,” returned Sempaty, smiling’, “and equality 
is akin to metaphysics with them — caviare to 
the multitude.” To which responded Ilsen- 
bergh : “ Our Austrian people are good and 
loyally-minded. They know — ” 

“ Oh,” interrupted Sempaly, laughing ; “ to 
your good fortune, they know very little. If 
once the eyes of their understanding become 
opened, your lives will not be worth many days’ 
purchase. If I had been apprentice to a brick- 
layer, I should have been a Social Democrat, 
too ! ” 

At which brilliant climax Sempaly, crossing 
his arms, looked round defiantly at the com- 
pany. 

“ A Social Democrat ! ” cried Ilsenbergh, 
aghast. “You! No, Nicki, that you never 
could have become. One thing alone would 
have preserved you from such an enormity — 
religion ! ” 

“ ’Hm ! ” muttered Sempaly, meditatively; 
and Truyn observed, with a scornful curl of his 
lips : 

“Perhaps, as a bricklayer’s apprentice, 
Sempaly would not have been overburdened 
with religion. It might have seemed a little 
difficult to him to acknowledge as divine the 
Being who had dealt so hardly by him.” 

“ Be quiet, Truyn,” cried Sempaly, somewhat 
nervously. “You know I object to having 
matters of faith brought in question.” 


ONE OF US. 


13 


“ All ! true. You go about wearing Roman 
Catholic eyeblinkers, and are in holy fear about 
the articles of your faith. It would be deuced 
uncomfortable for you not to be able to flatter 
yourself that your easy-going, little life was to 
be prolonged indefinitely,” said Truyn, without 
a trace of pleasantry and with a kind of weary 
iron}^. 

It was well known that Sempaly held no 
religious opinions; but, like many other favored 
children of fortune, clung tenaciously to a be- 
lief in immortality. Thus he gladly hoodwinked 
himself, and for all the world would not have 
looked into any book of heterodox opinions, 
such as “ David Strauss,” for instance. 

“ The sword is hanging over our verj^ heads,” 
sighed the countess, still absorbed in her dark 
forebodings. “This new Ministry!” and she 
shook her head. 

“ Is not of much account, save to give occa- 
sion for a few prosy leading articles in the daily 
papers, and to frame a whole sheaf of laws of 
which the monarchy will take no notice,” re- 
marked Sempaly. 

“ The Austrian canaille is already sharpening 
its teeth,” groaned the anxious lady. 

“ Rah ! the Austrian canaille is sound enough 
at heart. It will only bite when you refuse to 
let it lick your hands,” said her cousin, reassur- 
ingly. 

“ I should consider the one as unpleasant as 
the other,” returned the countess, looking down 
affectionately at her delicate white hands. 

“ Tell me, Nicki,” broke in the count, “ has 


14 


ONE OF US. 


not this new Ministry affected your prospects 
of advancement ? ” 

Count Sempaly was a rising* member of the 
Austrian political party in Rome. 

“ Yes, by jove ! it has,” returned Sempaly. 
“ I was hoping to be sent to London as secre- 
tary to the legation there. Now, one of the 
secretaries here is chosen for the post and our 
friends the Democrats are sending us one of 
their proteges to take his place. I heard it to- 
daj' from my chief.” 

“Who is the new secretary?” asked the count- 
ess, anxiously. “ If he is a protege of those 
people, he must be detestable.” 

“ A man of the name of Sterzl ; has good rec- 
ommendations. Comes from Teheran, where he 
seems to have made his mark,” said Sempaly. 

“ Sterzl ! ” exclaimed Ilsenbergh, ironically. 

“ Sterzl ! ” cried his wife, in dismay. “ It is 
to be hoped that the man is not married — that 
would be the crowning blow ! ” 

“ Thereupon I can reassure you, countess,” 
said the general, “Sterzl is not a married 
man.” 

“ Is he— a friend of yours ? ” she asked, in 
some embarrassment. 

“He is the son of one of my dearest chums,” re- 
plied the general, “and if he only fulfill the prom- 
ise of his youth, as fine a fellow in mind and heart 
as one could desire to meet ; a man of character 
and ability.” 

“That is always a good point,” lisped Ilsen- 
bergh, condescend ingly . 

“Yes, I really believe it is,” assented Sem- 


ONE OF US. 


15 


paly, stroking 1 his mustache. “ Heaven knows 
we can do with a worker here.” 

“ I had been promised the post for my 
nephew,” murmured the countess, dejectedly. 
“ How very annoying ! ” 

“ Very,” returned Sempaly, satirically. 
“That sort of unknown element is so con- 
foundedly perplexing, isn’t it? We so greatly 
prefer that it should be confined to *' one of us.’ ” 
Here the tea equipage making its appearance 
upon a Japanese etagere, the low-born secre- 
tary was consigned to oblivion for the time 
being. 


CHAPTER II. 

Count Sempaly did not affect Democratic 
views merely to scandalize his cousin ; he really 
believed himself to be a Liberal because he cut 
bad jokes at the Conservatives, and chose to 
stigmatize the peerage as a venerable institu- 
tion about as up to date as the Pyramids, but 
considerably less lasting. Yet, despite his re- 
spect for the masses, in theory, and his would- 
be witty contempt for the reactionary party, 
Sempaly was at heart a far stronger adherent 
to the classes than was his medkevally-disposed 
cousin, Ilsenbergh. With all his feudal mystic- 
ism, Count Ilsenbergh’s aristocratic prejudices 
were but those of birth — Sempaly ’s those of in- 
stinct. Ilsenbergh’s notion of what was due to 


16 


ONE OF US. 


his rank proceeded from pride of race and party 
feeling* ; with Sempaly it was a matter of 
nerves. 

A few days after the above related discussion 
in Countess Ilsenbergh’s drawing-room, Sem- 
paly, happening to meet the general, informed 
| him of the arrival of the new secretary, adding, 

I with a laugh : “ I don’t think he will go down.” 

“ Why ? ” asked the general. 

“ Because he talks execrable French, and 
knows nothing of old China,” replied Sempaly, 
with great gravity. Then — “ I introduced him 
to Countess Gaudry yesterday. He had hardly 
turned his back when she asked me — h’m ! she 
is a glovemaker’s daughter from Lille — * Is he 
a noble ? ’ and, would you believe it, I could not 
tell her. When it comes to knowing which 
plebeian may have been created baron or what 
Jew turned Christian, I simply give it up!” 
Then, with a sly smile : “ His name is Cecil 
Maria ! — Cecil Maria Sterzl ; a nice thing in 
names, is it not ? ” 

Cecil Maria ! The name was ridiculous, and 
suited him ill. His father had been an officer in 
the dragoons, who, retiring early in life from 
the army, had afterward devoted himself to his 
favorite pursuit of agriculture. His mother 

was a Fraulein von past her first youth at 

the time of her marriage, who, not content with 
having her coronet upon every article of her 
trousseau and emblazoned upon all her posses- 
sions, ever after must have a flag with the 
colors of her coat of arms flying from the small 
tower of the modest castle where she resided. 


ONE OF US. 


17 


and receive from all her friends and acquaint- 
ances the title of “ baroness,” which, to tell the 
truth, she was in no wise entitled to assume. 

When, in the first year of her marriage, a 
fine boy was born to her, the question of what 
name should be given him was naturally under 
eager discussion. 

“ Cecil Maria,” whispered the mother. 

" What nonsense ! The boy shall be called 
Antony, after his grandfather!” exclaimed 
the sensible father. 

Whereupon the mother burst into tears. 
What chance has a reasonable paterfamilias 
when the mother of his first born dissolves into 
tears ? 

The little fellow was accordingly christened 
Cecil. 

When scarce forty years old his father, who 
had devoted himself to nursing his little girl 
through scarlet fever, caught the infection and 
died. 

Cecil was then a handsome, sturdy little 
chap with a strong contempt for the French 
language, which his sister’s governess was de- 
sirous of instilling into him, and a decided lean- 
ing toward the society of coachmen and village 
lads. The baroness’s one sorrow was that he 
was lazy and would not take sufficient care of 
his hands. The guardianship of the children 
had been confided to General Sterzl, an elder 
brother of their late father. He interested him- 
self for their welfare, looked after their prop- 
erty carefully and guided their education con- 
scientiously. After a short acquaintance with 


18 


ONE OF US. 


the gifted boy, allowed thus to run wild, and of 
the affected mother and intimidated tutor, he 
shrugged his shoulders at the “ whole concern ” 
and placed Cecil in the Theresianum, the school 
so highly prized b} r all Austrian military men — 
when they do not happen to have been educated 
there themselves. 

During the first half-year Cecil was utterly 
miserable in his new surroundings; he, who 
hitherto in the course of his short life had been 
always accustomed to feel himself the first in 
every one’s estimation, now found himself rele- 
gated to the background. 

Though far above the average of his school- 
fellows in natural ability, thanks to his neg- 
lected education, he was considerably behind 
them in his work. Moreover, besides one boy 
from the town of Graz, who was given to boast 
of a left-handed graft of nobility, he was the 
only one among them who had no handle to his 
name. His schoolfellows twitted him about 
his Moravian accent, his clumsiness, his name. 
We have all had to suffer like tortures at 
school. It was a long time before he got recon- 
ciled to the state of things, and never ceased 
during the first half besieging his mother and 
guardian with letters entreating release from 
his durance vile. But both mother and guard- 
ian remained deaf to his entreaties. The re- 
sults, brought home by Cecil at the beginning 
of the midsummer holidays, were depressed 
spirits and well-cared-for nails. 

He began the following half by administering 
a sound thrashing to the tedious boaster from 


ONE OF US. 


19 


Graz, who had made himself obnoxious to the 
whole school by his vauntings of his illegitimate 
descent and other pretensions. This at once 
insured him popularity. He began to study 
diligently ; his professors praised his assiduity, 
and his complaints ceased. 

Had that subtle, poisonous vanity which per- 
vades the Theresianum begun to work in his 
veins, too? Was he also beginning to find a 
charm in hearing mass read on Sundays and 
saints’ days by a bishop — of being waited upon 
by orderlies in uniforms — of taking his dancing 
lessons from the court dancing master — of find- 
ing himself on familiar terms with the most dis- 
tinguished scions of Austrian nobility ? It were 
difficult to decide. Outwardly he took it all 
with the greatest indifference, and remained 
free from all appearance of affectation. His 
pride was too intense to allow of outward mani- 
festations. Later he went into the Oriental 
Academy, passed the examinations with brill- 
iant success, and, still under his uncle’s auspices, 
entered upon a diplomatic career. He was sent 
first to an Asiatic capital, decimated by cholera 
and a prey to revolutionary outbreak. There 
he distinguished himself and received the order 
of the Iron Crown. 

Society in Rome was quickly agreed on one 
point — the new secretary was not a man to be 
gauged by any light-minded sneer. There was 
nothing little or commonplace about him. In 
person, he was tall, broad-shouldered and erect, 
with a bearing which gave him the appearance 
of a military man in mufti, his brown hair 


20 


ONE OF US. 


short cut, his features strongly defined. He 
was heav3 r in manner, but a thorough gentle- 
man, simple and unexacting. 


CHAPTER III. 

The opinion expressed by the embassador 
concerning the new secretary was very differ- 
ent from that of Sempaly. 

“ My best worker,” said His Excellency. “ A 
remarkable worker. Clear head — good ability 
— but might be more tractable — might be more 
tractable.” 

Nor was the good opinion so quickly gained 
by him confined to his chief ; between himself 
and his younger colleagues there soon reigned 
the best of relations. He possessed one quality 
rarely found among men who take life so seri- 
ously — he never caviled at others. The em- 
bassy in Rome was thronged at that time with 
handsome young loungers, who, as Sempaly 
with ready wit expressed it, gave the Piazza di 
Yenegia the appearance of a boarding-school 
for mustachioed young countesses. Sterzl 
looked upon their harmless frittering away of 
time with the greatest composure and indul- 
gence. It was useless to expect any work 
from such idlers. As well endeavor to train 
butterflies to be ants ! He was ever read}^ to 
make good their small omissions ; to give them 


21 


ONE OF US. 

every freedom to pursue their life of pleasure. 
He wanted to work — to be doing- something — 
that was his way ; they wanted to lounge and 
enjoy life — that was their way. Thus each got 
on excellently. 

But though Sterzl at once fitted in so capi- 
tally with his colleagues, between himself and 
Roman society there was a certain coldness. 

His predecessor had not made the remotest 
claim to any exceptional merit in his diplomatic 
services, but then he had waltzed well, and, 
moreover, had not scorned the accomplishment ; 
therefore he had been a favorite with the ladies. 
They mourned his loss, and were eager to know 
how his successor would replace him. Sterzl 
was the last man to do this ; he was utterly de- 
ficient in that light-hearted courtesy and ami- 
able superficiality necessary to make a man 
popular in society. His heavy conscientious- 
ness and pedantic exactitude rendered him alto- 
gether unsuited to the frivolous tone of small 
talk. 

He usually moved silently observant through 
the throng. If he spoke at all, it was to say 
exactly what he thought ; and he expected the 
same sincerity from every one else. He did not 
understand that the customary pretty speeches 
and evasions of society were, after all, but an- 
other lower form of love to one’s neighbor ; that 
the universal candor he exacted must result in 
universal war ; that the limits between candor 
and impertinence, between hypocrisy and true 
courtesy are not yet clearly enough defined ; 
that one could as well speak out the whole 


22 


ONE OF US. 


truth in a lady’s drawing-room as appear there 
in his shirt-sleeves ; and that in the faulty con- 
dition of our souls it is fortunate for us that 
etiquette forbids us, whether corporeally or men- 
tally, to appear before others unless fittingly 
clad. Good Heavens ! what figure should we 
cut without that precaution ! The world can- 
not exist without lying. A man accustomed to 
society exacts the lie from it as a right, a cour- 
tesy to which he has a claim. As soon as a man 
is not worth a lie he is played out, like the Count- 
ess Orsina, and can take his departure. 

Sterzl was not a ladies’ man ; he had no 
chance with them. They nicknamed him le 
paysan du Danube . The men esteemed him ; 
they regretted his exaggerated views, more 
particularly his excessive sensitiveness in mat- 
ters of honor. Still, that is an error which men 
are never seriously down upon. 

Sterzl was absolutely indifferent as to what 
people in general had to say about him. Ever 
ready to go through fire and water for a friend, 
he was so indifferent to mere acquaintances that 
he often forgot even to bow to them in the street 
when, pondering some great scheme, he would 
stride along his way. He was certainly intended 
to do some great work in life, perhaps even to 
attain to eminence ; but — 


ONE OF US. 


23 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Princess Yulpini, in no wise proof against 
the latest fashionable disorder, morbus Schlie - 
maniensis , had just made a most wonderful find 
at a rococo dealer’s in the Via d’ Araccoli. She 
had bought of him two rare escutcheons, alleged 
to be from designs of Benvenuto Cellini, and a 
piece of tapestry stated to be from a design of 
Raphael, and had now invited a few intimate 
friends — Trujm, Sempaly, General von Klinger 
and one of the Austrian attaches. Count Sieg- 
burg — to pronounce upon the genuine nature of 
her find. 

The princess, a younger sister of Count 
Truyn’s, had met Prince Yulpini at Yichi, 
whither she had accompanied her invalid father. 
Their marriage quickly followed, and she had 
now lived some ten or twelve years in Rome, 
which she greatly liked, although never ceas- 
ing to deplore certain discomforts nor to laud 
her native Yienna, always making a point of 
having everything sent her from “ home ” — be- 
ing firmly convinced that there was absolutely 
nothing obtainable in Rome save photographs, 
antiquities and wax matches. 

Dinner was over. The conversation, which 
had been of a very animated nature, had con- 
sisted of one long tirade against the new Italian 
Government. Arrived at the stage of coffee 
and cigarettes, the guests were devoting them- 


24 


ONE OF US. 


selves to examination of the antiquities spread 
out for their critical judgment upon the carpet. 
Now and again one or other of the men, gravely 
going down on hands and knees, better to 
see the arrazzo and the bronzes, would, with 
utmost conscientiousness, deliver an opinion. 

The only convert to their genuine nature was 
the Countess Mane Schalingen, a canoness 
newly arrived in Rome and staying with the 
princess. Every one else was skeptical. The 
most decided was Count Siegburg, who, al- 
though, or, perhaps, because, he knew least 
about such things, threw in an occasional 
“imitation ” “made up” with telling effect. 

Wieprecht Siegburg, or Wips, as he was 
commonly called, was a great favorite in 
Austrian circles. I doubt whether he could 
have invented gunpowder, discovered America 
or have decided the movement of the earth; 
but all the same, for purposes of daily inter- 
course he was, perhaps, a more agreeable asso- 
ciate than Berthold Schwarz or Columbus or 
Galileo would have been. He was attached to 
the embassy, not as a career, but just simply to 
remove him from Vienna, where he had man- 
aged to get over head and ears in debt. After 
much anxious deliberation his widowed mother 
had hit upon this excellent method of checking 
her beloved son in his spendthrift course. 

“You make me quite nervous, Count Sieg- 
burg,” cried the princess, at length. “Be- 
sides, you have not the slightest pretension to 
an} r knowledge of antiquities.” 

“I believe you are right, princess,” lie an- 


ONE OF US. 


25 


swered, calmly. “ Anyway, I have lately had 
occasion to suffer rather considerably for too 
great faith in my own critical judgment. Till 
then I flattered myself that the genuineness of 
an antique was to be estimated by the depth of 
its dust and cobwebs ; but since I have got to 
know that even that venerable covering can be 
produced by the artifice of the dealer, I must 
confess to having lost my one sheet anchor.” 

Here they all laughed. Not that the sally 
was especially witty, but because it was the 
custom to laugh at Siegburg’s jokes. 

They were in the smoking-room — a retreat 
comfortably and artistically arranged with its 
carved oak and Oriental hangings, and admir- 
abty adapted to promote the feeling of “ among 
ourselves,” that admixture of well-bred cour- 
tesy and cordial familiarity so dear to the ini- 
tiated. They did not enter very profoundly 
upon learned subjects, they rather touched the 
surface of things ; sometimes made poor jests ; 
told anecdotes after the manner of St. Simon, 
bhough without giving offense to any one, be- 
cause they abstained from carrying out things 
to the bitter end, and did not subject them to 
chemical analysis. In a word, they were super- 
ficial; and to be so sometimes is a commendable 
virtue. 

“ This is delightful — so thoroughly Austrian 
to-night,” exclaimed the princess, “but I fear 
our comfort is not of long duration. I have a 
presentiment. Do you know that we have Mes- 
dames de G-audry and Ferguson dining in the 
neighborhood ? ” 


26 


ONE OF US. 


As she spoke Prince Norina was announced. 

“ ‘Coming events cast their shadows before/” 
quoted Sempaly, half aloud. 

It was well known in Roman circles that the 
appearance of Prince Norina was quickly fol- 
lowed by that of the Countess de Gaudry. The 
prince was a tall, fair young man, of fashion- 
plate style of beauty, and for some five years 
past the devoted slave of the above-named 
lady. 

Having greeted the princess, he shook hands 
with the gentlemen and entered at once into an 
animated conversation with the master of the 
house upon the latest blunders of the King’s 
Government. 

Yulpini was the blackest of the black, a 
stanch adherent of the Pope, more on political 
than religious grounds — principally because as 
a Roman noble, fanatically exclusive, he ad- 
mitted no community of interest with Italians 
proper, and looked upon a united Italy as a de- 
lusive impossibility. Prince Norina, guiltless of 
any political convictions, and a member both 
of the Caccia and Scachi Clubs, acquiesced in all 
his host’s representations without giving ear to 
any. 

Shortly after Norina’s entrance a move was 
made to the drawing-room, a spacious apart- 
ment furnished somewhat promiscuously with 
a combination of Louis XIV. and Empire 
styles, and which stood between the 'official 
reception-room, where the princess received 
publicly, and the boudoir, sacred to her inti- 
mate friends. 


ONE OF US. 


27 


The cheerfulness before prevailing* had per- 
ceptibly chilled down and had reached the stage 
when people turn to photographs as a resource, 
when Mesdames de Gaudry and Ferguson were 
■announced and rustled in. The lady who had 
the distinction of wielding the scepter over 
Prince Norma was a pale brunette, rather in- 
teresting-looking than pretty, with short feat- 
ures and weird, searching eyes, loud and as- 
suming in manner to impertinence, which she 
considered as grand genre. Society had, probably 
for its own convenience, chosen to look upon 
her intimacy with the prince as merely good- 
fellowship, and the countess one of those women 
who like the excitement of walking on the very 
verge of a precipice. Mrs. Ferguson, daughter 
of a hotel keeper in San Francisco and wife of 
an invisible Croesus, in contrast to Mme. de 
Gaudry was very fair, with large, blue eyes. 
She had a row of sharp little teeth, and was of 
slight build and flat-chested. She painted, dyed 
her hair, dressed in outre manner, spoke English 
with a Yankee drawl and French with a shock- 
ing accent, sang startling couplets a la Judic, 
and owed her introduction to society to a cer- 
tain Marchese B., whose acquaintance she had 
made at Nice. Her friendship with Mme. de 
Gaudry had resulted from their having shared 
a joint landau together, would probably culmi- 
nate in a joint opera-box and go to pieces over 
a joint admirer. 

They had two men in attendance, the Count 
de Gaudry, who looked like a barber’s block and 
was generally suspected of carrying on an old 


28 


ONE OF US. 

curiosity shop under another name, and M. 
Dieudonne Crespigny de Bellancourt, a broad- 
shouldered French diplomatist, son of a butcher 
and brother-in-law to a duke. The conversa- 
tion turned upon the domestic troubles of the 
Z— s, the Roman climate and the latest exca- 
vations. Mesdames de Gaudry and Ferguson 
lent themselves at first to the well-bred tedium 
of general conversation, the while gradually 
contriving to attract to themselves as much 
individual attention from the men as was pos- 
sible under the circumstances. 

Shortly after eleven came Countess Ilsen- 
bergh from a state dinner party, looking very 
bored. “It is positively too absurd how one 
meets all the world here in Rome,” she ex- 
claimed, after answering various questions as 
to the function at which she had assisted. 
“ Can you guess whom I came across to-day, 
Marie ? That Lenz girl from Vienna — now she 
is either a Duchess or Countess Montidor — I 
once had to do with her years ago about some 
Charity Bazaar. Up she comes to me like any 
old friend and gushes about ( we Austrians’ 
and ‘our dear Vienna ! ’ Did you ever hear 
anything so amusing ? ” 

“ Humph ! Poor Fritzi ! you are to be pitied,” 

* said Sempaly with a malicious smile. “ Never 
mind, there is a real treat in store for you. 
Sterzl’s mother and sister will be here in a day 
or two.” 

“ Indeed ? Humph ! That is unpleasant 
news.” 

“Why?” inquired Mme. de Gaudry, mixing 


ONE OF US. 


29 


eagerly in their talk. “Are they in anyway 
doubtful ? ” 

“By no means,” said Countess Ilsenbergh, 
interrupting her hastily. “I believe them to 
be most worthy people, but— all the same, it is 
trying to the last degree to be constantly meet- 
ing people here in society whom one could not 
know in Vienna. You must give him a hint, 
Nicki. You must tell him — tell him — ” 

“All right, Fritzi,” returned Sempaly, laugh- 
ing, “I will tell him — my dear fellow, keep 
your women folk to yourself, it would be so 
deuced disagreeable to my cousin Ilsenbergh to 
meet them any where.” With a shrug of her 
shoulders Countess Ilsenbergh, turning away 
from her humorous cousin, began somewhat 
nervously fanning herself with . her tortoise- 
shell fan, as she asked : 

“ Shall you receive these people, Marie ? ” 

“Whom do I not receive?” returned the 
princess, meaningly and half aloud. 

“I cannot — decidedly not,” continued Count- 
ess Ilsenbergh, growing more and more annoj^ed, 
“ sorry as I shall be to hurt SterzTs feelings. 
He will only have himself to blame for obliging 
me to take such a step.” 

“ Act as you think best,” answered the 
princess; “but, as you know, I have great 
sympathy with Sterzl — he may reckon on a 
stanch friend in me.” 

“The paysan du Danube ,” giggled De Gau- 
dry, to whom the conversation of the two 
Austrian ladies was rather enigmatical. 

“Herr Sterzl is a gentleman,” remarked 


30 


ONE OF US. 


Countess Ilsenbergh, icily. A Gaudry should 
not be suffered to make merry over a country- 
man of hers, though not of noble birth. 

“ The paysan du Danube is a particular friend 
of mine,” said Princess Vulpini, with decision, 
and with the childlike warmth so characteristic 
of her. “ I am very fond of him ; he is quite 
‘one of us.’ ” 

“ Higher praise could not be awarded on this 
earth/’ observed Truyn, with good-natured 
- irony. 

“ When baby fell and broke his arm here the 
other day it was he who picked him up, and you 
should have seen how tenderly he handled my 
little darling,” continued the princess. 

“ An admirable proof of the eligibility of the 
ladies of his family,” said Sempaly, laughing. 

“ Excuse the question,” broke in Countess 
Gaudry ; “ it is merely to understand the situa- 
tion — the Sterzls are not in Austrian society ? ” 

“ Our home etiquette could hardly serve as a 
precedent for foreign society/’ said Truyn, with 
some asperity; he could not endure Countess 
Gaudry. “ In Austria no one is received who 
is notone of us by birth.” 

“ Yes, ’’filled in Sempaly, humorously, “ Aus- 
trian society is as exclusive as the stem of Israel 
— it scorns to make proselytes.” 

And the glove manufacturer’s daughter, who 
evidently had not understood Count Truyn’s 
remark, or who thought it better to appear not 
to have done so, said, with much assurance : 

“It is very useful to know these things.” 

Siegburg, sitting behind her, winked at Sem- 


ONE OF US. 


31 


paly with a comical grimace. Princess Yulpini 
looked almost angry. 

“I declare, I will not leave Sterzl in the 
lurch, ” she cried, “and, if his sister be all that 
he describes her to be, I — ” 

“ Has he already given you a description of 
his sister? ” asked Sempaly. 

“Oh, yes, indeed, ” replied the princess, smil- 
ing kindly. “ Have you not had one, Nicki? ” 

“Heaven forbid ! He never speaks to me of 
his household deities ! I am not worthy to be 
taken into his confidence. He merely deigned to 
inform me that they were coming, smiling curi- 
ously the while ! Humph ! He seems to think 
the young lady perfection — means her to make a 
brilliant match, I suppose. I should be con- 
foundedly surprised if that was not his motive 
in bringing her here. Norina, you’d better 
beware ! ” 

“Mile. Sterzl would surely not aspire to a 
princely coronet,” said Countess de Gaudry, 
protecting her property with some asperity. 

“ Sterzl will accept nothing less for his sis- 
ter,” asserted Sempaly. 

“Do not talk such folly, Sempaly,” said 
Truyn, endeavoring to check his cousin’s wild 
spirits. 

The latter had thrown himself upon a settee 
and, bending over the cover of a letter, was 
making a hurried sketch. Presently he handed 
it to the Countess Ilsenbergh. 

Mme. de Gaudry, looking over her shoulder, 
exclaimed : 

“ Capital — capital ! ” 


32 


ONE OF US. 


Sterzl, as auctioneer, was standing, the ham- 
mer in one hand, in the other a fashionably 
dressed doll ; round him were grouped all the 
coroneted heads of Rome. In one corner of the 
paper were the words : “ Fraulein Sterzl for 
the first — second — third time of asking ! ” 

The sketch passed from hand to hand. It 
was a speaking likeness of Sterzl. Soon after. 
Countess Ilsenbergh left, and as the entertain- 
ment began to flag, the two lady friends took 
their departure soon after midnight, and those 
gentlemen who had been only attracted by their 
presence quickly followed suit. 

“Fritzi positively suffers from an idee fixe,” 
began the princess, with a shrug of the shoul- 
ders, as soon as all indiscreet strangers had 
withdrawn. “ Now she would have me apply 
hard and fast rules to this poor girl ! What 
harm can the child do me ? ” 

“ Can’t conceive,” replied Siegburg, lazily, 
“ and d’ye know, by jove ! if the girl’s pretty 
and has money, I’ve a great mind to marry her 
myself, cela regularises la 'position ! 99 

There was nothing Siegburg liked so much 
as to talk of the money his future wife was to 
bring him. He was as fond of boasting of a 
selfishness he really did not possess as many 
a rich man of poverty. 

“Besides, it was a shocking want of tact on 
Fritzi’s part to bring up this stupid question of 
receiving, or not receiving, before those two cad- 
dish persons,” continued the princess; she liked 
to make use occasionally of strong expressions, 
which from her lips, far from being repellant, 


ONE OF US. 


33 


rather acquired a charm of their own. “ The 
idea of my suddenly doing- the exclusive ! ” 

“Did you notice how our countess par excel- 
lence prepared to follow in Fritzi’s footsteps ? ” 
asked Siegburg. 

Meanwhile, Count Truyn, with the good- 
natured assistance of the master of the house, 
had been searching in some haste upon the 
mantelpiece and neighboring etageres. 

“ What are you looking for, Erich ? ” asked 
the princess. 

“That sketch of Sempaly’s. I do not care to 
have it lying about. No offense, Nicki ; the 
caricature was excellent ; I should have thought 
nothing of it had we been among ourselves^; but 
I do not think you should have shown it about 
to strangers. You are such a careless fellow, 
you never think of consequences.” 

“'What the devil have I done now?” de- 
manded Sempaly, in some irritation. “Merely 
placarded a young lady as a marriage-hunting 
adventuress ! Bah ! The idea of any one 
taking every piece of fun seriously ! ” ex- 
claimed Sempaly. 

They searched everywhere for the slip of 
paper. It was nowhere to be found. 

“ I am convinced that that Piazzarola carried 
it off ! ” cried the princess in great annoyance. 
By the “ Piazzarola ” was naturally meant the 
amiable Countess de Gaudry. 


34 


ONE OF US. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Yes, the Princess Vulpini had a strong liking 
for Sterzl, a liking reciprocated by him with al- 
most enthusiastic reverence. Despite his seem- 
ingly rough and prosaic exterior, he had within 
him a vein of chivalrous poetry and the high- 
est admiration for true, pure womanhood. 
He could not bring himself to offer a woman 
that impertinent, well-nigh risque, flattery so 
welcome to many a one, and he did not know 
the language of fashionable adulation. There- 
fore, his bearing to those he called “true” 
women had something in it distinctly chival- 
rous and deferential ; his whole manner so full 
of a kindly, Old-World courtesy that he at once 
won their hearts. He treated them part as 
children to be guarded ; part as sacred relics to 
be worshiped. 

Princess Vulpini quickly got to take a decided 
pleasure in his society. She would confide to 
him her little annoyances about this or that dis- 
agreeable aspect of Roman life, and rely upon 
him for all kinds of things, being, in common 
with all women of her amiable temperament, 
very helpless and thoroughly impractical. 


ONE OF US. 


35 


CHAPTER VI. 

As in Vienna society there had been few girls 
more charming than was the Countess Marie 
Truyn, so in Rome there was no sweeter woman 
than the Principessa Vulpini. When she was 
seen of an afternoon driving along the Corso to 
the Villa Borghese in her springed landau, al- 
ways accompanied by some four or five lovely 
children, looking as if they had been stolen out 
of one of Kate Greenaway’s picture-books, 
fashionable women who, instead of their chil- 
dren, preferred the companionship of some ex- 
quisitely got-up lady friend, would exclaim : 
“ Here comes the hen ! ” 

The men, on the contrary, would take off 
their hats with more than usual empressement , 
to which she would reply with so gracious and 
sweet a smile that it was like a ray of sunshine 
to the heart. She had never been regularly 
beautiful, and had early lost the freshness of 
youth, as well as the slender grace of her fig- 
ure ; yet there was still an indescribable charm 
iti her appearance. The most lovely ornament 
of her youth, her superb chestnut hair, she still 
retained, wearing it, as she had done when a 
sixteen-year-old young countess, simply brushed 
back from her face and arranged in a wealth of 
thick plaits at the back of her perfectly formed 
head. 

Her face, with its kindly eyes, delicate re- 


36 


ONE OF US. 


trousee nose, tender mouth, ever ready to break 
into smiles, had still, despite its somewhat worn 
complexion, an almost childlike sweetness. Her 
movements were simple and graceful. Her 
whole appearance was fraught with the magic 
of exquisite distinction and noble womanliness. 

Her style of dress was behind the fashion. 
Modern “ chic ” was not to her taste. She read 
much and seriously, principally books upon nat- 
ural history. Yet she had not lost the naive 
faith of her early childhood, and this primitive 
Catholicism fitted in admirably with the simple 
earnestness of her nature. Sempaly, who was 
really fond of her, always characterized her en- 
thusiastic piety as a lovely feature of her char- 
acter. He declared that every really sympa- 
thetic woman must of necessit}^ be religious ; a 
man might allow himself to play the free- 
thinker, but a woman without religion would 
be as repulsive as a woman with a hump-back. 

This remark, made one day by Sempaly in 
the presence of Sterzl, annoyed the latter, al- 
though possessed of even less actual religion 
than was Sempaly. He considerd it frivolous. 

“The women whom a man holds as sacred 
he does not usually make subject of jest,” he 
said, with that rigid pedantry of his which 
always excited Sempaly to a spirit of contradic- 
tion. In this case he deigned no further reply 
than by dropping the corners of his mouth and 
a careless shrug of the shoulders. 


ONE OF US. 


37 


CHAPTER VII. 

A few days after Count Sempaly had given 
such a brilliant example of his artistic proclivi- 
ties General von Klinger, reclining upon a divan 
covered with costly Persian rugs, was engaged 
in teaching his parrot to sing the Austrian 
hymn, having nothing better to do to while 
away the time ; a loyal occupation, but one 
against which the subject of his labors, cling- 
ing to the roof of his cage loudly flapping his 
wings, energetically protested. 

It was a superb studio, that of the general’s, 
the domed ceiling painted in fresco, with carved 
rococo cornices, and hangings of costly stuffs, 
tapestries and Oriental embroideries on the 
walls. So vast were its proportions, that 
people standing about in it looked like pigmies 
and the artist’s paintings like a series of illus- 
trations for books. 

The sirocco was blowing without — the air was 
oppressive — the sky gray — and the general in 
low spirits. It had^ been a lost day with him 
as far as painting was concerned, and although 
the clock had struck a quarter to five, he had 
had no- callers. Other days at this hour the 
studio was thronged, unpleasantly so. The 
general often complained — of* course privately — 
over the interruption to work, exulting in it 
the while. Solitude made him melancholy. He 
began despondently to think how difficult it 


38 


ONE OF- US. 


was to get on in an artist’s profession. His 
coloring was excellent, that all his brother 
artists assured him ; but his technique left much 
to be desired, that lie himself confessed. His 
specialties were : a harmonious tone of gray, 
and horses; 

All his pictures — save one which the Em- 
peror, rather from consideration for his past 
military services than for his present artistic 
powers, had bought at a high price — all his 
pictures came back to him from the exhibitions 
unsold. Artists, smoking his cigars, explained 
it by telling him that he was too independent in 
his artistic aspirations, too high-minded to 
make concessions to the masses, and would 
therefore never succeed with the general public. 
Just as he was in the act of carefully and delib- 
erately whistling the hymn to the unruly par- 
rot for the sixteenth time, he was interrupted 
by a knock at his door. He went to open it, 
and found Sempaly, who had come to tell him 
that he had just unearthed a treasure in the 
shape of a musty but exquisite piece of wall 
tapestry in a convent, which he had bought for 
a ridiculously low sum. He had actually bought 
it for the general, knowing how greatly he had 
been longing for such a find. “ But if you don’t 
like it,” he concluded, “I will keep it my- 
self.” 

No one could do another a service more mod- 
estly ; no one offer thanks for a service ren- 
dered more gracefully than he. He had culti- 
vated both to an art. 

The business concluded, Sempaly began 


ONE OF US. 


39 


feelingly to lament his ill-fortune at having to 
dine that evening at the English embassy, and 
go on to a dance at the French one, proceeding 
to rave to his old friend about the ideal life he 
would like to lead — a life in which routs, balls 
and dinner parties would be unknown. After 
which he began to look about among the 
studies — always kept by the general turned 
with their faces to the wall ; commenting al- 
ternately with a “charming ” or “ superb ” out 
of his easy good-nature, and because he always 
felt the wish to say something pleasant to 
people. 

“ Why don’t you finish that one ? 99 he said 
at last, of an unfinished sketch of two Bashi- 
bazouks. 

“ It would make it more salable,” answered 
the general, somewhat testily, to whom the 
“finishing ” offered certain insuperable difficul- 
ties, “but, jmu know, I make no concessions 
to the masses ; I paint according to my own 
convictions, not with a view of pandering to 
the taste of the public.” 

Sempaly merely gave a smile at this artistic 
creed, as indeed it deserved. 

“ As the sale of your pictures is only a matter 
of caprice with you, general,” said he, cour- 
teously, “I should advise you to renounce it 
altogether, and to present the entire collection 
of your pictures to the state — that we, in 
Vienna, may have our Wiery Museum, too.” 

But on the general assuring him, on the con- 
trary, that he was thoroughly in earnest about 
selling his pictures, Sempaly, with a merry 


40 


ONE OF US. 


twinkle, began thoughtfully : “ Once there was 
a shoemaker, a genius, but he would only work 
according to his kteas of the beautiful and artis- 
tic convictions, and not according to the require- 
ments of the public. Thus he would only make 
pure Grecian sandals, no such commonplace 
things as boots and shoes. That man died a 
bankrupt, but with the pleasing consciousness 
that he had made no concessions to the pub- 
lic ! ” 

The general was about to make an angry 
retort to this malicious parable, when once 
more the loud knocking, considered to be eti- 
quette at the doors of artists’ studios, was audi- 
ble. It is evidently supposed that it requires a 
certain amount of insistence to rouse an artist 
irom his dreams. 

The general went to open to the newcomer. 
The studio was separated from the hall by a 
small ante-chamber. Into this glided a tall, 
slender, exquisitely lovely sprite in a dark-hued 
dress and sealskin jacket. 

“ What, you, Zinka ! What a surprise ! ” 
exclaimed the old general, in great delight. 
“How long have you been in Rome, dear 
child ? ” 

“Since this morning,” returned a merry 
voice. 

“ Did no one come with you ? ” asked the gen- 
eral, in surprise, as Zinka, shutting the door he 
had left open, hurried forward into the studio. 

“No; no one,” she answered, composedly. 
“ I left my maid at home. She and mamma 
are both fast asleep, recruiting from, the 


ONE OF US. 


41 


fatigues of the journey. I ordered the car- 
riage and came to see you all by myself ; was 
it not very good of me ? Why such an odd ex- 
pression ? and why have I had no kiss, uncle ? ” 

Determined and defiant, with head thrown 
back and both hands in her little muff, the girl 
now stood before him, gazing with astonished 
expression at him from a pair of very large gray 
eyes. 

“My dear Zinka,” began the general, who, 
like all right-minded old gentlemen with a ro- 
mantic past, was particular to a degree about the 
strict decorum of all the women folk in any way 
belonging to him, “ I am immensely delighted 
at this visit from you ; but, dear child, in a 
perfectly strange city where no one knows you, 
and in a house perfectly strange to you 
where — ” 

“ Ah ! now I see,” broke in the girl. “ It is 
not the proper thing to do ! I shall live to be a 
hundred before I get to know what is the proper 
thing ! Extraordinary ! My dear old uncle 
used always to say it was all nonsense to trou- 
ble one’s self about such things, for to a well- 
bred person everything was allowed, and from 
people of no breeding one expected nothing. 
But evidently he knew nothing at all about it!” 
and, turning vehemently on her heel, she made 
toward the door. 

“ But, my dear Zinka ! 99 cried the general, 
holding her back, “ tell me at least where you 
are staying, before you whirl off like a little 
fury. Do not be so unreasonable.” 

“I am perfectly reasonable,” she replied. 


42 


ONE OF US. 


She was embarrassed and exceedingly irate ; 
her cheeks had an angry flush, tears glistened 
in her eyes. 

“ I should never, of myself, have dreanied 
that it would have been considered improper to 
pay a visit to an elderly gentleman ” — with ma- 
licious emphasis on the qualifying adjective — 
“in his studio. But who can fathom the limits 
of man’s vanity ? However, I am perfectly 
reasonable and acknowledge my mistake. Like 
an idiot I had been rejoicing all day long at the 
thought of surprising you in your ‘ at home ’ 
hour; meant to have asked you to come round 
and dine with us at the Hotel de l’Europe, and 
first to drive with me to the Pincio to watch the 
sunset — and these are my thanks ! Oh, no, 
pray do not seize your hat, peine perdue, I shall 
not be taking you with me now. Adieu ! ” 

And she hastened away with head erect and 
without deigning to cast another glance at the 
general, who, however, dutifully attended her 
to tier carriage. The poor old general came 
back thoroughly crestfallen. 

A merry voice accosted him with : “ Fallen 
into utter disgrace, general ? 99 

It was Sempaty, totally forgotten by the 
owner of the studio, and who had been witness 
of the whole scene from a shady corner. 

“So it seems,” returned the latter, shortly, 
busying himself with a palette. 

“ I say, who on earth is this haughty little 
princess ? 99 

“She? Zinka Sterzl, my godchild.” 


ONE OF US. 


43 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The coup de foudre has gone out of fashion, 
no one believes in it any more. Nevertheless, 
Sempaly himself never attempted to dispute the 
fact that he fell over head and ears in love with 
Zinka at first sight. 

And when the general, some few days after 
Zinka had burst into the studio in the above- 
named abrupt fashion, having accepted an in- 
vitation to dine with the “ Baroness 99 Sterzl at 
the Hotel de TEurope, entered the said lady’s 
drawing-room, the first person his eyes fell 
upon, standing by Zinka and deeply engaged 
in looking over a pile of photographs with her, 
was Count Sempaly. 

The general and he were the only guests. 
Yet, or rather on that account, the conversa- 
tion at dinner took as lively and animated a 
tone as was possible at any table presided over 
by so artificial an automaton as the “ Baron- 
ess” Sterzl, who, poor woman, was the very 
essence of vanity and absurdity, and of dis- 
torted and narrow opinions. One of her crazes 
was, Heaven knows why or wherefore, that the 
general had been the victim of unrequited love 
for her ; and she always assumed a manner of 
irritating tenderness toward him. Moreover, 
since he had last met her, she, or rather her 
children, had by the advantageous sale of some 
landed property become rich, which caused her 


44 


ONE OF US. 


to adopt ever-increasing* graces of manner, mak- 
ing intercourse with her, if possible, still more 
delightful. She complained of everything under 
the sun, in a would-be aristocratic, querulously 
nasal voice — the numerous discomforts of the 
sleeping-cars; the miserable manner in which the 
railway carriages were upholstered ; of Roman 
dirt, Roman broughams and Roman hotels; 
dragged the names of all the aristocratic ac- 
quaintances she had made in Meran, Nice and 
Biarritz into her conversation ; and asked, the 
next day being a saint’s day, to what church 
“ one ” could go. 

To which the choleric old general made angry 
reply : “ God is everywhere.” While Sempaly 

with courteous gravity said : “ Cardinal X 

is to read mass at St. Peter’s to-morrow ; and 
the music there is very fine. I should recom- 
mend you to go to St. Peter’s.” 

“ Really? Can one really go to St. Peter’s 
on a festival? ” she returned. “ The company 
is usually so mixed in such large churches.” 

The old general, ashamed of these absurdities 
before the children condemned to belong to her, 
endeavored to turn the conversation by asking 
Zinka slyly if she had yet forgiven him. 

“ As if I bad had time to think any more of 
your straitlaced notions,” returned Zinka, 
slightly coloring. It was evidently unpleasant 
to her to be reminded of her little escapade. “ I 
have far too much else on my mind.” 

“What is that, pet?” asked her brother, 
sympathetically, who always took everything 
au grand serieux. 


ONE OF US. 


45 


“I have lost something*/’ she said, with 
affected melancholy, beneath which it was plain 
to see that she was jesting*. 

“ What, not a four-leaved shamrock, or 
some prized trinket ? ” questioned the g*eneral. 

“ Oh, no, something far more important.” 

“Your porte-monnaie ? ” exclaimed the bar- 
oness in a vexed tone. 

Here Zinka broke into a merry peal of 
laughter. 

“ Oh, no, mamma, something 5 infinitely 
grander. Can no one guess ? Rome ! ” 
Whereupon Sterzl, who never could follow 
his lovely sister’s quaint fancies, exclaimed : 

“That’s beyond me.” 

And Sempaly, sympathizing, said : 

“I see, fraulein, the cruel disillusion has 
come to you, too.” 

And Zinka, continuing to talk as one accus- 
tomed to be appreciated, said : 

“Ever since I can remember I have 
dreamed of Rome, and longed to see it. My 
Rome was ever to me as the very outskirts of 
heaven — and this Rome is like an outskirt of 
Paris. My Rome was so beautiful, and this 
Romels so ugly.” 

“ Ho treason, Zinka ! ” exclaimed the general, 
who worshiped the traditional Rome with all 
the romance of his nature. 

“ I suppose, then, Rome is really not beautiful 
as a city,” said Sterzl, soberly. “ It is only in- 
teresting when regarded as an art map with 
life-sized, natural illustrations. Besides, you do 
not know it yet. So far you have only seen — ” 


46 


ONE OF US. 


“ Houses, do you mean ? ” asked Zinka, 
lowering* her eyes in seeming humility. 

“ It is quite too dreadful, ” broke in the 
baroness, piteously. “ For five whole days 
have we been looking about without finding 
anything suitable. Every house we have seen 
has some disadvantage ; either the stairs are 
too dark, or the entrance bad, or the drawing- 
rooms not en suite, or the servants’ offices — ” 

“ Yes, yes, my poor little Zinka,” interrupted 
the general, hastily, “if you have as yet seen 
nothing of Rome but the furnished houses on 
the Corso you may well — ” 

“Oh ! but I have seen something else,” cried 
Zinka, merrily. “ I have made thorough ac- 
quaintance with Rome.” 

“ In your dreams ? ” 

“No, yesterday, while mamma had migraine 
“Ah! that dreadful migraine ,” sighed the 
baroness, having recourse to her scent-bottle. 
“ I am a perfect martyr to it.” 

To suffer from migraine and be a strict Catho- 
lic was, in the baroness’s estimation, bon genre . 

Sempaly, after looking at his hostess with 
politely sympathetic expression, turned to 
Zinka with a question. 

“Yes, I assure you, I know every corner of 
Rome,” she answered. “ Ask the driver of cab 
No. 1203 ; he will tell you all about it. I hired 
him yesterday for three hours, and I do not 
know where we did not go. You see a whole 
week in Rome and only to have seen furnished 
apartments was a little too exasperating. So, 
making the best of my opportunity while 


ONE OF US. 


47 


mamma was lying* down to get rid of her 
headache, I slipped out — now, no more reprov- 
ing looks, uncle. I had ‘my maid with me, only 
meaning to go on foot, armed with Baedeker, 
and have a look about. Of course we lost our 
way, that is in the nature of things ; and while 
we were standing perplexed, each holding on to 
a corner of our open Baedeker, a cab-driver 
drove up insinuatingly to the curbstone. 

a We jumped in ; he asked where we wanted 
to go. As I had no answer ready, he said — 
with, oh ! such a considerate, protecting air : 

‘ The signora wants to see Roma. All right ! 
I will show the signora Roma,’ and away he 
drove us, making endless little circles through 
the whole city. I was quite giddy with our 
waltz through the sights of Rome. He pointed 
out a whole forest of broken columns upon 
which were carved fragments of old Roman 
gods and goddesses, and remains of old temples 
all carefully carted off there like a ‘ variety of 
Christmas presents for art collectors.’ f II 
Campo Vaccino,’ he called it. I believe it was 
the Forum. Then he showed me the palace of 
Beatrice Cenci, the Jews’ quarter, the Marcel- 
lus Theater, the Temple of Vesta ; and every 
time he told me the name of any of these 
antiquities he would say : ‘ Am I not an honest 
cabman ? Many another would only drive you 
from one to the other, and what would you see 
— nothing ! — a heap of stones ! I tell the sig- 
nora this is the Coliseum, this is the Portico 
of Octavia, and the stones' at once have a mean- 
ing.’ Then, as he put me down at the hotel, 


48 


ONE OF US. 


lie gravely said : ‘ So. Now the signora knows 
Roma.’ ” 

It was during dessert. The baroness looked 
greatly annoyed. 

“ I must beg you,” she said, rising, “in fut- 
ure, first, not to enter into conversation with 
cab-drivers, and secondly, when you do drive 
out, not to take a botta ” (the Roman one-horse 
carriage on hire); “it is not correct. You 
never have the slightest tact.” 

Zinka, as sensitive as she was spoiled, 
changed color. 

“Oh, let her alone, mother; why should she 
not air her Italian and drive in a botta if she 
likes ? ” said Sterzl, who was sparring with his 
mother from morning to night. 

While this was going on Sempaty took oppor- 
tunity to say, in a low voice, to Zinka : 

“ I certainly cannot promise to be as enter- 
taining as your cabman ; but, if you will allow 
me, I should be delighted to help you to recover 
your lost Rome.” 

“Do you know your way about?” asked 
Zinka, with naive discourtesy. 

“lam the laquais de place of the embassy,” 
he replied, laughing. “My one occupation is 
to conduct distinguished Austrians round the 
curiosities of Rome.” 

The evening passed merrily. The baroness 
uttered a few more silly sayings, to which Sem- 
paly gave ear with courteous gravity. Indeed, 
he was a model of good behavior. The baron- 
ess was quite dazzled by his “ modesty ” ; not so 


ONE OF US. 


49 


Sterzl. He knew that it was but put on ; a 
masterpiece of aristocratic savoir faire. But 
the coming- of his beloved sister had put him in 
wonderfully good spirits. True, he uttered one 
or two of his cutting aphorisms against the 
clerical party, and found fault with society in 
Rome ; but sure as he began Zinka would break 
in with some charming piece of nonsense, and 
in her merry chatter he forgot all else. 

At length he asked her to sing one of her 
Moravian Volks lieder ; and setting herself at 
the hotel piano, she began. Her sweet, rather 
veiled voice had something mystical and poetical 
in it ; her manner of singing, all the pathetic 
dreaminess of the Sclavonic race. 

Sterzl, who yawned over an opera, listened to 
her voice, his head resting on his hand in a kind 
of ecstasy. Even in Sempaly, who, despite his 
Hungarian name, was of Moravian extraction, 
Zinka’s simple melodies awakened echoes of a 
pure, fresh boyhood lost in the whirl of the 
world’s pleasures. As she left off, he thanked 
her simply and earnestly. 

Zinka’s temperament was like an April day. 
After having brought tears into her own eyes, 
and those of her listeners, with the pathos of 
her songs, she must needs break daringly into 
one of Secocq’s couplets which she had heard 
sung by Judic at Nice. 

The meaning of the words she was rattling 
off with such satisfaction to herself was, as 
every sensible person could see, Chaldaic to 
her ; but the baroness was beside herself with 
indignation. “Zinka!” she cried, affectedly; 


50 


ONE OE US. 


“ child, what can these gentlemen be think- 
ing of you ?” 

“ Pray, do not disturb yourself on that ac- 
count,” said the general. 

Zinka was trembling ; her pale, delicate face 
quivered with excitement. Here Sterzl stepped 
in to her assistance. 

“It often needs but good-will to understand 
my sister,” he said, turning to Sempaly. Then 
laying his great, strong hand tenderly on 
Zinka's fair head — ‘ 4 Think no more of it, But- 
terfly. But, for a young woman of your age, 
you are rather a goose ! ” 

A little later, as Sempaly was leaving the 
Hotel de l’Europe with the general, his first 
words were : 

“ Can you explain how it happens that, with 
that fool of a mother, the daughter can have 
remained so angelically pure — so — Botticelli- 
like ? ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Some terrible disaster had occurred about 
this time to a Bohemian or Polish mine, by 
which more than five hundred families had been 
reduced to starvation. 

Naturally the great world took advantage of 
the catastrophe to inaugurate a round of char- 
ity balls, fancy fairs and other benevolent means 
of extracting money from the pockets of the 


ONE OF US. 


51 


rich, while at the same time drawing’ universal 
attention to itself by its philanthropic efforts. 

After much weighty deliberation the Countess 
Ilsenbergh had arrived at the conclusion that, 
in consequence of both embassies being in deep 
mourning, it devolved upon her to initiate the 
necessary festivities. 

The apartments of the Palazzo were as 

if made for a great fete. After long deliberation 
it was decided that the philanthropic entertain- 
ment should assume a dramatic character. 
There was to be an operetta, a proverb of 
Musset and some tableaux vivants , to be fol- 
lowed by a collection. 

Countess Gaudry developed the most as- 
tonishing powers of organization throughout. 
She was on the best of terms with the Villa 
Medici — the French Academy in Rome — and 
took the entire management of the scenery, 
the artistic ensemble of the costumes and, in 
fact, was the general referee. Up to a certain 
point all went to perfection. The operetta — of 
course oeuvre medite, and indeed the work of a 
Russian genius very proud of the fact that he 
could not read a note of music — was soon ar- 
ranged for. There were only three characters 
in it, and it afforded opportunity for a choice 
rococo masquerade and, moreover, the insertion 
of som q piquante Paris couplets. 

Mrs. Ferguson, never averse to powder her 
hair, enamel her face and apply the necessary 
patches to enhanse her complexion, was to sing 
the soprano part ; Crespignj' undertook the 
part of the husband or guardian, in smoking- 


52 


ONE OF US. 


cap and beflowered dressing-gown ; and a young 
artist from Villa Medici, a M. Barillat, ever 
ready to sketch, or to wear the dress of a man 
about town, was to take the part of the lover. 

Nor had there been any difficulty to find 
characters for the Musset proverb. But when 
it came to the tableaux, there was a great 
hitch. At first the ladies had taken up the 
idea enthusiastically, all eager to display their 
charms under the becoming auspices of tab- 
leau effects. The numbers of the fair aspi- 
rants were the first difficulty with which the 
committee, presided over by Countess Ilsen- 
bergh, had to grapple. Then ensued a series 
of frictions and dissensions. The ladies were 
not satisfied with the subjects chosen ; declared 
the costumes selected for them to be unbecom- 
ing, the characters allotted to them unsuitable ; 
every one chosen to fill a secondary character 
took it as a deadly insult ; an acknowledged 
beauty priding herself on her left profile would 
not for the world exhibit her right profile to 
the critical remarks of the audience, etc., etc. 

And then — grievous perplexity ! — nearly every 
one of the available men of the countess's set 
evinced the most unconquerable aversion to- 
ward making themselves ridiculous in fancy 
dress, and turned an absolutely deaf ear to 
all the flattering invitations of the Ladies’ Com- 
mittee. 

Sempaly, who had been chosen to personify a 
Roman emperor, refused to listen to the pro- 
posal that he should appear in a rose-colored 
toga, and suffer himself to be crowned with a 


ONE OF US. 


53 


Bacchante wreath ; and Count Truyn had 
shrugged his shoulders at the suggestion that 
he should wear a flowing wig. 

Siegburg — always known as “little” Siegburg, 
though he was six feet high — after having comic- 
ally defended himself against the combined at- 
tacks of the Ladies’ Committee, good-naturedly 
consented to be a Pierrot in a scene in which 
the Yulpini children were to take part; and 
Sterzl, of whom His Excellency entreated it as 
a personal favor, agreed, resignedly enough, to 
be the executioner in a Lady Jane Grey tableau 
after Delaroche. This tableau was to be the 
crowning event of the evening. To no other 
had Barillat devoted such infinite pains. The 
role of Lady Jane was to be taken by a known 
English beauty, the Lady Henrietta Stair. 

When behold ! a day or two before the repre- 
sentation Lady Henrietta sickened with the 
measles. The perplexity of the committee was 
extreme on receiving intelligence of this contre- 
temps. That very evening a special meeting, 
with the co-operation of some lay members, 
was hastily called together to discuss the mat- 
ter at an informal tea at Palazzo . Every 

one turned up to a man, save Sterzl, who mor- 
tally hated the whole “benevolent business,” as 
he called it, and sent an excuse. Every lady 
present felt a secret call within her to be 
Lady Jane. Mrs. Ferguson was, however, 
the first to put her thought into words and he- 
roically to offer to fill the place of the absent 
Lady Henrietta. 

To the general astonishment Sempaly, who 


54 


ONE OF US. 


had hitherto confined his participation in the 
philanthropic scheme to making* the most un- 
merciful fun of it, now proposing Siemiradzky’s 
Living Torches, now Markart’s Entry of Charles 
V. as the most appropriate tableau, vehe- 
hemently negatived this proposition. “Your 
spirit of self-sacrifice, Mrs. Ferguson, grows 
more admirable day by day/’ said he. 

“ Dear me,” replied she, naively, “ but what 
sacrifice is it to have a new historical dress 
made out of a fashionable old one ? ” 

“ That truly is no sacrifice,” responded Sem- 
paly, quietly ; “ but where the sacrifice comes 
in is for a lady to be willing to show herself in 
a role so unbecoming as that of Lady Jane 
Gray would be to you.” 

Mrs. Ferguson smiled, thereby disclosing her 
little sharp tiger-like teeth. “ Ah ! I suppose 
you are of opinion that I do not possess the 
grace touchante of which M. Barillat is always 
speaking ? ” 

“ As little as le grace efficace ,” returned Sem- 
paly, gravely. 

While the ladies were engaged in an animated 
discussion among themselves Sempaly took the 
opportunity to whisper a few words in Barillat's 
ear, who gave a start of pleased surprise. 

Going up to Countess Ilsenbergh, he said : 
“ I have an idea to propose to Your Ladyship ; I 
have thought of a substitute.” 

“ Some newly imported American,” exclaimed 
Mme. de Gaudry, laughing, “or a model pos- 
sessed of infinite grace and golden hair ? ” 

“ The ladies may rest satisfied that I would 


ONE OP US. 


55 


never venture to propose a model to them,” re- 
turned Barillat, earnestly. “ No, no, I assure 
you, the lady in question is unexceptionable, 
and as amiable as she is lovely — Fraulein Sterzl. 
I made her acquaintance last night at Lady 
Julia Ellis’s ; she is an Austrian ; your lady- 
ship must have met her ? ” 

“ I have not had that pleasure,” returned 
Countess Ilsenbergh, dryly. 

“ Ah, Mon Dim! the young lady is not eligi- 
ble,” murmured Barillat, embarrassed. 

The countess laughed. 

“ Really ! ” cried Mme. de Gaudry, irritated 
at the haughtiness of the Austrian countess, 
“ you take the thing too seriously. Why should 
the little Sterzl girl not take part in it ? Why, 
I have heard that in Vienna even actresses join 
in entertainments for charitable objects.” 

“That is quite another thing,” returned 
Countess Ilsenbergh. 

Countess de Gaudry with a shrug of the 
shoulders turned her attention to other press- 
ing matters, and the Austrian aristocrat mo- 
tioned to her cousin Sempaly to come to her. 

“I am sick to death of the whole affair,” she 
said, as he approached. “In Austria I have 
assisted times without number at charitable 
affairs, and they have gone off without a shade 
of annoyance — but here — ” 

“ Ah, yes. In Austria we manage things 
very differently,” returned Sempaly, feelingly. 

“People are so ill-mannered here ; every one 
wants to play first fiddle,” said the countess. 


'56 ONE OF US. 

“ The result of the flowing* tide of Repub- 
licanism,” observed her cousin. 

“And then this unpleasantness about the 
Jane Grey tableau,” sighed the countess. “To 
think that Henrietta Stair should have just 
taken this time of all others to catch measles.” 

“Englishwomen are always so. inconsider- 
ate,” declared Sempaly, gravely. 

“ Do you happen to have met this Sterzl 
girl?” asked the countess. 

“ Yes.” 

“ What is she like ? ” 

“Eh ! She is a very pretty girl.” 

“ And besides ? ” 

“ And besides — looks just like any other girl 
of good family. She is really one of Nature’s 
chef d’ oeuvres / and seems equally so on closer 
acquaintance. Princess Vulpini is quite taken 
with her.” 

“ Indeed ! Barillat seems so set upon having 
her for Lady Jane Grey, and I suppose he had 
best have his own way. If Marie Yalpini likes 
to bring the girl to me, we will let it be so.” 

“ My dear Fritzi ! What, ask Fraulein 
Sterzl to take part in your tableaux, without 
inviting her mother to be present ? ” said Sem- 
paty, laughing. 

“ Certainly invite her ! Of course only for the 

theatricals, when the Palazzo is thrown 

open to Jones, Brown and Robinson, to the 
combined plutocracy, even to the English 
clergy and the cosmopolitan world of art.” 

“With their families, Ffitzi ? You are really 
too admirable,” said Sempaly, sweetly. 


ONE OF US. 


57 


“ But the rehearsals are so private/’ she 
sighed. 

It was growing late. 

“ Very well, then/’ said Countess Ilsenbergh, 
with resignation ; and next morning a polite 
call was made by Countess Ilsenbergh on the 
Mesdames Sterzl, to solicit Zinka’s aid in the 
Jane Grey tableau. 

The countess, being possessed of as great 
tact as haughtiness, quickly succeeded in rec- 
onciling not only Zinka, but even her sensitive 
and unpliant brother, to the fact that the"young 
girl was only being asked to lend her assistance 
at the eleventh hour and in the great ladies’ 
dire need. 

Cecil, indeed, was by no means taken with 
the idea of allowing his sister’s loveliness to be 
thus public^' exhibited, and only yielded so as 
not to spoil her childish delight at the idea of 
taking part in the play without words,” as 
she called it. He so worshiped his young sister 
that he could refuse her nothing. 

It was the evening of the fete. The stage had 
been erected in an enormous gallery, the walls 
of which were almost entirely covered with mir- 
rors, while from the ceiling, lavishly painted in 
gold and frescoes, were suspended a row of 
exquisite Venetian glass chandeliers, blazing 
with light. 

Despite its vast proportions the apartment 
was crowded to excess. The most distinguished 
personages were conducted to a carpeted space 
reserved for the nobility, in front of the remain- 
ing, alas ! somewhat mixed, assemblage. 


58 


ONE OF US. 


Distinguished-looking men leaned against the 
walls. The whole resembled a sea of many- 
hued shimmering silks and sparkling jewels. 

Princess Vulpini, who, somewhat pale and 
worn - looking, assisted the countess to do 
the honors, was moving gracefully among the 
throng with gracious look and word, while 
Countess Ilsenbergh did her part with all the 
queenly dignity that befitted her so well on 
such occasions. 

Few women wore their brilliants with the 
majesty of Countess Ilsenbergh. This even her 
irreverent cousin Sempaly was ever ready to 
admit. 

The great success of the evening was not the 
Musset proverb, in which Countess de Gaudry 
and the accomplished Barillat played off a fire 
of brilliant repartee against each other, accord- 
ing to the approved traditions of the Theatre 
Francais; nor was it the operetta, wherein 
Mrs. Ferguson looked most fetching, and sang 
the “ Sentier Couvert” to perfection ; nor was it 
even the children’s tableau, in which the little 
Vulpinis looked like a cluster of freshly gath- 
ered rosebuds, all smiles and childish loveliness 
— the great success of the evening was “ The 
beheading of Lady Jane Grey.” 

The expression of Sterzl’s face, wherein lay 
all the agony of the executioner who worships 
every hair of the victim’s head, was a tragedy 
in itself. And Zinka ! Looking up to heaven 
with woe-struck face and ecstatic smile, her 
whole bearing one of saintlike submission, and 
yet of touching childlike dread— thus it was she 


ONE OF US. 


59 


personified to the life the sweet, innocent being 
before whose grace the very executioner lowered 
his eyes. A stringed quartette played the 
Allegretto from Beethoven’s Seventh Sym- 
phony the while, its melancholy strains forming 
a fitting accompaniment to the poet^ of the 
whole. Dreamily sweet the lovely Allegretto 
breathed through the hall, like the slumber 
song with which an angel wafts some soul still 
wrestling in mortal agony to the eternal 
realms of peace. 

Villa Medici, the members of which, with 
their director, had been invited in a body to 
judge of the artistic effect, agreed that this 
representation of the picture far exceeded any 
other that had been given; and, in the over- 
whelming success of the tableau, the Countess 
Ilsenbergh entirely forgot all the disagreeables 
connected with it. 

After the collection, which amounted to an 
unusually large sum, the greater number of 
the spectators took their departure. Count 
Ilsenbergh, with dignified smile, the type of 
feudal philanthropy, had distributed gracious 
thanks to the gentlemen assisting, and bouquets 
to the ladies ; and now the fete having lost its 
semi-official character, assumed that of a pri- 
vate soiree. Zinka was sitting in one of the 
small drawing-rooms surrounded by a group of 
young French and Roman admirers. Being 
one of the rare women to whom the adulation 
of men, personally indifferent to her, afforded 
not the least pleasure, she was receiving their 
enthusiastic speecnes with the coolest non- 


60 


ONE OF US. 


chalance. She had asked for an ice, and Prince 
Norina, presenting it on one knee, had availed 
himself of this attitude of homage to offer some 
piece of bombastic flattery, to which Zinka, un- 
accustomed to such Southern exaggeration, had 
made some annoyed reply, which apparently 
had had no effect ; when Sempaly coming up, 
said in the abrupt manner he adopted to men 
of his own age : “ Come, get up, Norina ! Don’t 
you see that your attentions are unwelcome to 
the lady ? ” 

Angrily the prince started up ; and Sempaly, 
drawing up a chair beside Zinka, had, as usual, 
in the next few minutes completely monopolized 
her attention. 

“My cousin is largely indebted to you,” he 
began, in his musical voice. “ You were the 
saving of the whole concern. As a rule I hate 
and detest amateur shows, but the Jane Grey 
tableau was simply superb ! ” 

“ I enjoyed the proverb so much. Mme de 
Gaudry acted with such spirit.” 

“ Humph ! That kind of spirit has lost its 
charms for me.” 

“Indeed!” she laughed. “You seem to me 
to suffer from a general condition of blase- 
dom.” 

“And what do you call blasedom ? ” he 
asked. 

“ I ? Well, that weariness of heart and 
soul which seems to be inseparable from the 
wear and tear of a life of enjoyment, and which 
belongs, par excellence, to the equipment of a 
man of fashion.” 


ONE OF US. 


61 


“ ’Hm ! ” exclaimed Sempaly, meditatively. 
“You mean something* between a disease and 
an affectation ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ In one word, blase- 
dom is the mundane croix of the smart mail.” 

Sempaly shot a searching’ look into her eyes. 

“Your definition is brilliant,” said he. “I 
will make a note of it. But it does not apply 
to my condition ; I am not blase. I do not 
accept things with indifference. Anything 
false, or superficially good or beautiful, irritates 
me ; but when I come across what is lovety, 
noble and genuine, then I assure you I can ap- 
preciate and admire it beyond any man.” 

Meanwhile, the winner of the prix cle musique 
from Villa Medici had changed the somewhat 
pretentious improvisation in which he was in- 
dulging to one of Strauss’s waltzes. 

Countess Ilsenbergh made no objection to the 
general desire for a dance, and soon several 
couples were revolving under the light of the 
brilliant chandeliers. 

Sempaly rose. “ May I have the pleasure ? ” 
he asked, with a low bow ; and the next mo- 
ment Zinka and he were in the ballroom. In- 
stead of growing red when dancing, Zinka’s 
complexion had the more becoming peculiarity 
of growing still paler ; her movements were 
dreamy and gliding, rather than quick and 
springing ; she waltzed with incomparable 
grace. 

The neophyte’s love of rushing through a 
waltz for the sake of rapid movement was a 
thing of the past with Sempaly. He now only 


62 


ONE OF US. 


danced with women who interested him. This 
way of his was well known. 

“By Jove ! ” exclaimed Siegburg to General 
von Klinger, wbth a meditative shake of the 
head, as, standing in the recess of a window, the 
two watched the striking couple, “ I am afraid 
my match with Fraulein Sterzl won’t be com- 
ing off ! ” 

“Are you not so keen about it now ? ” asked 
the general, dryly. 

“ On the contrary,” was the reply; “but I 
fancy the odds are too strong against me. 
What’s your opinion? ” and he gave a meaning 
look at the old general, who, understanding 
him, was silent. 

“ She dances exquisitely. I have never seen 
a girl dance better. How well she carries her 
head!” he murmured. Then suddenly a merry 
light flashed into his sleepy - looking eyes, 
“Hello ! look at Fritzi’s face — what consterna- 
tion ! By Jove ! Won’t there be the devil to 
pay ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

Count Sempaly was a constant visitor at 
the Sterzls ; he adopted a tone of intimacy 
with Cecil ; did the honors of Rome to Zinka, 
and lunched or dined with them en famille two 
or three times a week. Since the Ilsenbergh 


ONE OF US. 


63 


tableaux Zinka had been asked everywhere. She 
had become the rage. The men were at her 
feet ; the ladies were eager to learn her Volks 
heder. The men she treated with indifference ; 
to the ladies she was uniform^ pleasant and 
amiable, more especially to those whom the 
world slighted, and this increased her popular- 
ity. Count Truyn’s little daughter— a charm- 
ing, spoiled child, who regularly gave her maid 
notice three times a week, wanted to learn 
everything from Latin to water-colors, and was 
the torment of all her masters, save Truyn 
himself — perfectly worshiped Zinka, and 
would yield to her slightest wish. Princess 
Yulpini, delighted at her influence over her 
tom-boy little niece, called her “ une vraie trou- 
vaille and Lady Julia Ellis, who had made 
Zinka’s acquaintance two j^ears before at Meran, 
was proud to have been the first to intro- 
duce her to Roman society. Whenever Bar- 
oness Sterzl was unable to go out, Ladj r Julia 
was ever ready to act chaperon ; and Zinka 
was always expected to pour out tea for 
Lady Julia at her Wednesday “At Homes,” 
and help her receive her guests. 

The Countess Schalingen, a canoness and en- 
thusiastically devoted to the fine arts, replete 
with that sentimental sense of art which the 
French call “ romance ” and not yet a convert 
to Winterhalter, vowed that Zinka was “deli- 
cious” ; made expeditions in the environs with 
her ; took her the round of the dealers of an- 
tiquities, and finally painted her upon a hand 
screen for the Princess Yulpini, her head and 


64 


ONE OF US. 


bust, enveloped in floating- draperies, rising 
from out the calyx of a lily. 

Before a fortnight had elapsed an American 
had made inquiries about her ancestors, and 
handsome De Crespigny about her dowry. 
Prince Norina paid court to her behind the 
back of his lady love, and Mesdames de Gaudry 
and Ferguson conferred on her the adulation of 
immeasurable jealousy. Nor did all this, in 
any way, turn her head or cause her the least 
astonishment. From her childhood she had 
been so used to spoiling. Wherever she had 
gone she had made friends. She was glad when 
people were kind to her, though, truth to tell, 
she would have been vastly surprised had they 
been anything else. 

Sempaly had called her “ Botticelli-like,” but 
onh r with reference to her inner self. Out- 
wardly, Zinka had nothing of the narrow- 
chested grace of primitive art ; rather did she 
remind one of the pastels of Latour, or of a 
much later type of the eighteenth century, 
that of Lamballe. She had never had the con- 
ventional coloring of fair women ; but in her 
freshest youth had always been pale, with 
light, sepia-like shadows under the eyes ; her 
naturally waving hair was that color between 
golden brown and a warm Venetian red. 
Growing low upon the forehead, its silky 
shade softened the contour of the face without 
concealing the fine brow, thus giving her lovely 
face an expression of open frankness. She was 
then without angularity, her arms long and 
slender, her hands small, and occasionally 


ONE OF US. 65 

rather red. Her variable temperament swayed 
between meditative dreaminess and merry au- 
dacity. Her gait, sometimes light and easy, 
would be at other times almost awkward, “like 
an angel dragging its wings,” as Sempaly ex- 
pressed it. Her veiled yet vibrating voice re- 
minded one of the deeper tones of an Amati 
violin. She could be uproarious as any bo3 T , 
graceful as a water nymph and naive as a child 
of six — with that somewhat rough naivete of a 
girl brought up mostly by men. All her opin- 
ions bore the stamp of a dreamy seclusion from 
the world, an enthusiastic wealth of love. 

She had had both French and English gov- 
ernesses, and had spent one year in the con- 
vent of the Sacre Coeur ; but the person who had 
most influenced her character had been her 
guardian, General Sterzl, a clever, somewhat 
eccentric man, with the most profound an- 
tipathy to the sentimental friendships girls are 
wont to indulge in, and for the life of routine, 
induced by a too early introduction to the 
world. To him was due the commendation once 
awarded to her, by even the great Countess 
Ilsenbergh : 

“ One must allow that she has nothing arti- 
ficial about her ; she is as perfectly natural as 
any of our own girls.” 


66 


ONE OF US. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Poor Coralie ! ” the baroness would say, 
“ What a pity she is not here. It would just 
have suited her ! ” 

<f Yes,” would Sterzl reply, in his dry way, 
“ she was a little too hasty ! ” 

The said Coralie was the baroness’s eldest 
and favorite daughter. Disappointed in her 
love for a recalcitrant nobleman, she had some 
three years before renounced the pomps and 
vanities of this wicked world, though — worthy 
child of her mother — not forgetting even in her 
grief and despair to choose as her refuge a 
convent in which the nuns were divided into 
“ ladies ” and “ sisters,” and who played cache- 
cache instead of hide and seek with the chil- 
dren intrusted to their care ; also, where the 
storeroom went by the name of la defense. 

“ Poor Coralie ! ” the baroness would sigh, 
and straightway betake herself to her daven- 
port to indite letters overflowing with the de- 
lights of their stay in Rome to all her friends 
and relatives, among others her sister, the 
Baroness von Wolnitzky. Mme. Sterzl was a 
type of that category of society especially 
known in Austria as the “ off-shoot ” nobility. 
Austrian “off-shoot” nobility is, as it were, a 
kind of step-sister to the aristocratic creme de la 
creme — a conglomeration of resigned noble 
spendthrifts, and of pretentious bourgeois par- 


67 


ONE OF US. 

venus, who mutually accommodate each other. 
In this circle nearly every man is a “ baron/’ 
and most decidedly every woman a ‘ 4 baron- 
ess/’ 

The greater portion of its members are poor, 
but unquestionably noble. They admonish 
their children in bad French, and talk “society 
talk ” with their contemporaries in age, in 
nasal, drawling accents. They give their guests 
little or nothing to eat, but what there is, is 
served upon the family plate, and the } 7 “ re- 
ceive ” the same old fogies year after year, who 
dye their hair, and know of the “ Almanach de 
Gotha ” by heart. They are perfectly up in 

“ society,” know every detail of Tiffi X ’s 

wedding trousseau, how it was that the affair 

between Steffi O and Mucki A — - had 

come to grief, etc., etc. 

True it is that nowadays the “ off-shoot ” 
nobility, together with many another growth 
of civilization, no longer enjoys a separate ex- 
istence ; but, through the ever-increasing spread 
of Liberalism, is being fast submerged into the 
great world of finance. 

But one short year ago the baroness had had 
perforce to be content to take up her position 
on the grand staircase of the opera house to see 
the aristocratic world defile past her on its way 
to the grand tier, monopolized exclusively by 
it, thinking it sufficient to be privileged to pass 
thus in review the aristocratic toilets and catch 
the aristocratic nothings falling from aristo- 
cratic lips. 

In Rome she was one of the “ upper ten.” 


68 


ONE OF US. 


Her delight knew no bounds, while day by day 
she grew more exclusive. Countess Ilsenbergh 
was a novice in the art to her. 

Perhaps the most comical thing of all was to 
see her meet any of her less favored country- 
men in “ society.” A Herr Brauer happened 
to be wintering that year in Rome, an elderly 
fop with a beautiful young wife, whom he liked 
to see admired by youthful members of the aris- 
tocracy. 

Armed with a few letters of introduction he 
contentedly sunned himself and his charming 
spouse in the outer fringe, so to say, the Boule- 
vard Exterieur of society, never dreaming the 
length of the Rue des Martyrs. The baroness 
never ceased to wonder how “such people ” 
could be received. 

She was always well dressed, gave the most 
recherche little dinners, drove the neatest of 
coupes, the most luxurious of landaus ; her 
coachman displayed the most faultless of clean- 
shaven faces, with clear-cut imperial, the most 
correct of liveries in all Rome. Her manners 
were ever changing, being an attempt to repro- 
duce as her own those of each leader of fashion 
by turns. 

Disliked in society, the poor woman found it 
accordingly very dull work ; ever on thorns to 
uphold her social position, she endured the 
tortures of one standing' perpetually on tip-toe. 

Her only real pleasure during this period, 
which she always reckoned the happiest in her 
life, was the writing the before-named letters 
home ; [especially those to her sister, Baroness 


ONE OP US. 


69 


- 


Wolnitzky, in Bohemia. She needed to make 
her triumphs public property, and like all petty 
natures, knew no greater delight than to ex- 
cite a spirit of envy in others. Sometimes she 
would read her epistles aloud to Zinka, for she 
was proud of her style. Zinka would feel some- 
what uneasy at the emphatic sentences, con- 
stantly ending with : <<r What a pity that you 
are not with us. We should be only too de- 
lighted if you could come.” 

“ You had better take care, mamma ; they 
will be taking you at your word and come.” 

“ What silly notions you have,” the baroness 
would reply, contentedly folding her epistolary 
achievement. “ They have not the money.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A row of low-sunken huts with moss-grown 
roofs, greenish puddles, here and there an old 
lime tree, or gnarled pear tree whose stunted 
branches stand out black against the light- 
green hue of a winter sky ; a stagnant pond 
full to the brim, upon which three solitary 
geese disport themselves ; a mudd}^, almost 
impassable road, along which a row of creak- 
ing plowshares are being slowly drawn by 
shaggy farm-horses — and you have the sketch 
of a Bohemian village, at one end of which 
stands the tumble-down manor-house with its 


70 


ONE OF US. 


coat of arms over the sunken gateway ; on one 
side of which is the pigsty, on the other the 
dog-kennel. True to the unsesthetic custom of 
Bohemia, the castle — a square building with 
shingle-covered attic roofs — stands one side 
of the farmyard, the drawing-room windows 
looking direct on to an immense dung-heap, 
which, at this moment, several maid-servants 
are engaged in turning over with pitchforks, 
in which occupation they are being watched 
over by a short, pinched-up-looking man wear- 
ing a weather-beaten foresters’ hat and waist- 
coat, from which the wadding protrudes at 
the armholes. He is smoking a pipe, the bowl 
of which is decorated with a gayty painted oda- 
lisque, has a very red face and a pair of purple 
ears, looks anything but aristocratic, and snig- 
gers to himself as he exchanges jokes with the 
women folk engaged in their unsavory work. 

This is Baron Wolnitzky, w T ho, in common with 
many others, having made himself much talked 
about in 1848, has since completely disappeared 
from public life. As with many a withered, 
barren tree, whose dried-up branches one sees 
parching away in the dust of p, September day, 
it is difficult to think that he, too, once had his 
day. In the spring of 1848— that period of uni- 
versal blossoming forth— Baron Wolnitzky had 
had his patriotic ideas, which he had set to 
verse, and his nation had celebrated him as its 
prophet — perhaps because it needed an idol, per- 
haps because in that period of excitement it 
could not discern black from white. 

At that time he was wont to wear a costume 


ONE OF US. 


71 


of the old Sclavonic period, with sleeves of won- 
derfully eccentric fashion, and had married a 
patriotic young lady, who dressed only in Scla- 
vonic colors— blue, red and white; and from 
that time forth had two youths in Sclavonic 
dress, with halberds, guarding the door of her 
residence. 

The baron’s family, descended some genera- 
tions back from a wandering Pole, was not 
highly connected ; his means he owed exclu- 
sively to his father, who latterly called himself 
Wolnitzky, and had made his money as a mas- 
ter baker. In feudal times he would scarcely 
have ventured to bring forward again his doubt- 
ful patent of nobility ; but in the age of freedom 
it might serve him in good stead. Such things 
lend distinction to your Democratic victim. 

In the June rising he fled in picturesque dis- 
guise with his wife, first to Dresden, thence to 
Switzerland ; lived for some time in a boarding- 
house at Geneva, where he was looked up to as 
a political refugee, and where he horrified the 
mistress of the house by his inordinate appetite, 
returning later to his native land, where he 
found that 1848 and its gayly dressed Sclavonic 
adherents had fallen rather into oblivion. 

Retiring to his estate he became a philoso- 
pher. 

From the time of Diagones philosophy has 
avowedly been the refuge for unfulfilled pre- 
tensions. He went about in his shirt-sleeves 
and played cards with the peasants. Developed 
a still larger appetite. Grew more facetious, 
vulgar and corpulent day by day ; and if he 


72 


ONE OF US. 


thought about anything it was in the form of an 
involuntary, heavy dream, following upon the 
inordinate enjoyment of some favorite national 
dish. His wife, a square-built, good-natured but 
ridiculous woman, bore a striking resemblance 
to the mother of the regent of Orleans, a Ger- 
man, who was possessed of a strong intellect 
and much sentimentality ; she was terribly 
wanting in tact, hard and cynical, garrulous 
and indiscreet of speech. 

Without a murmur, she conformed to the 
new prosaic turn of things, and bore a quiver 
full of children to her husband, most of whom 
died young. Three were left to them, two sons 
— who, contrary to the family annals, went into 
the infantry — and one daughter, in whom the 
national romance blazed out afresh with re- 
doubled fanaticism. She had been christened 
Bohuslava, generally abbreviated into “ Slava,” 
which euphonistic word in the most important 
of the Sclavonic tongues stands for “fame.” 
Tall like her mother, but, unlike her, thin, she 
had even somewhat statuesque features, which, 
the story went, resembled the Belvedere Apollo. 

She had many admirers, but none in exact 
accord to her wishes. In her twentieth year — 
she was born in ’48 — she was passing the winter 
in the country, unmarried and discontented, 
dividing her attentions between the study of 
serious literature and the occasional visits of a 
dyspeptic young Pole, who cherished a warm 
admiration for her, and for whom, on her side, 
she acknowledged some slight amount of con- 
descending interest. 


ONE OF US. 


73 


Baron Wolnitzky is still standing' beside his 
dung-heap ; the great black cur, who hitherto 
has been incessantly yelping at the entrance of 
his kennel, now for a change has sprung on to 
it, from which elevated position he breaks out 
into fresh incessant yelps. Everything is satu- 
rated with newly melted snow. On all sides is 
the gurgle and patter of running and falling 
water. The gray twilight of a late February 
afternoon is enveloping the earth : all has a 
dirty, dispirited air. Without, the clumsy 
wheels of a heavy cart grate upon the road ; 
through the tumble-down gateway lumbers a 
dung-cart. 

“ What’s the news in the town? Have you 
bought a paper ? ” asks the baron of the driver, 
who, the ears of his round cap tied under his 
chin, and enveloped in a malodorous sheepskin 
coat, approaches the master to kiss his elbow. 

“ Yes, my lord baron,” replies the man, 
“ and there's a letter, too.” With that he 
draws out from the pocket of his sheepskin a 
jacket wrapped in a red flowered handkerchief. 

The baron carefully examined the hand- 
writing. 

“ Another letter from Rome,” he mutters, 
with a grin. Must take it in to give the 
women folk something to talk about.” The 
women folk — i.e., the mother and daughter — 
were sitting in the dining-room, at a long table 
with a damask cloth, upon which stood the 
coffee apparatus, as also a petroleum lamp, and 
a bread basket of tarnished silver wire. The 
petroleum lamp was smoking, and the whole 


ONE OF US. 


""74 

interior presented as God -forsaken an appear- 
ance as did the forlorn mud-sunken village with- 
out. 

The baroness in a washed-out dressing-gown, 
which made her look more shapeless than 
usual, wearing no cap, her scanty gray hair 
short cut, was breathlessly seeking, for the 
tenth time that day, under ever} 7 chair and 
table for the keys of the storeroom. Bohu- 
slava was sitting, bending over a volume of 
Mickiewicz, from which in a rough voice and 
in somewhat faulty Polish she was reading 
aloud. A young man, with sharp-cut face, 
bilious-looking complexion and long black hair, 
wearing a Polish frogged coat with broad 
turned-down collar and shiny satin tie of a 
greenish-brown hue, corrected here and there 
the pronunciation of a word. He was the Polish 
admirer, and belonged to the genus of professor 
of languages with a romantic background ; lived 
in a neighboring village and came over every 
Saturday to give Bohuslav^ a lesson in Polish 
and spend his Sunday with the family. 

When the union of this patriotic couple, al- 
ready secretly pledged to each other, was to 
take place depended upon the result of a myste- 
rious lawsuit which the young Pole was carry- 
ing on with the Russian Government. His name 
was Vladimir de Matuschowsky, and his great- 
grandmother had been a Potocka. The while he 
gave his lessons he brooded over conspiracies. 

“ Is there nothing more for tea ? ” asked the 
. baron, eying the assortment of stale rolls in 
the bread basket askance. 


ONE OF US. 


T5 

f£ No ; the dogs have eaten up the cakes,” 
answered the baroness, carelessly. She was 
just then on all fours under the piano, search- 
ing near the pedal for the lost key. 

e< You’ll get an apoplectic stroke, mother,” 
said Bohuslava, angrily, though not anxiously, 
and without making the slightest attempt to 
help the old lady. At this moment the house- 
maid appeared, bearing the long-sought key 
upon an old battered Britannia metal salver. 

“ Oh, thank goodness ! ” exclaimed the bar- 
oness. Wherever was the thing? ” 

“ In the dog-kennel, my lady. The puppies 
had carried it off.” 

Her fondness for dogs was another point of 
resemblance with the celebrated Duchess of Or- 
leans ; she, too, was ever engaged in bringing 
up some half-dozen pups; and the dog-kennel 
was looked upon as the storehouse of all kinds 
and descriptions of lost property. 

“ What little rascals they are ! ” she cried, 
with pleased smile at this fresh display oi 
audacity on the part of her four-footed pets. 
“Put out the sugar, Clara.” 

“ Got a surprise for you, my lady— a letter 
from Rome,” muttered the baron, pushing the 
epistle, reeking with patchouli and damp sheep- 
skin, toward his wife, as with the other hand 
he grasped the rum decanter with which to 
flavor his tea. 

“Ah, ah! from Rome,” said the baroness; 
“ that is delightful. Where are my spectacles? 
where can they be ? ” searching and feeling all 
over her portly person, thereby making her 


76 


ONE OF US. 


corpulence more evident. “ Oh ! here they are; 
I was sitting- upon them. Now listen, children,” 
and she began reading her letter aloud : 

“ Dear Lottie — You must not think it un- 
kind that I do not write oftener ” (Mme. Wol- 
nitzky glanced in surprise over her spectacles — 
“ Not oftener ? She never in all her life wrote 
as often to me as she has done from Rome ” ) ; 
“ but only think of the whirl in which we live. 
Not a day passes but there is a dinner-party, 
one or two soirees and a ball which we are ex- 
pected to attend. We are spending the Carni- 
val in the midst of the Roman creme de la creme , 
and are quite in society. To-morrow we dine with 
Princess Yulpini — nee Truyn, a sister of the 
Truyns of Rautschin — the day after to-morrow 

there are to be amateur theatricals at the . 

Zinka is quite the rage. Among others, Nicki 
Sempaly, brother to a prince, is paying her 
such attention — ” 

Here Wolnitzky broke into his wife’s commu- 
nication : 

“I never thought she could be such an old 
fool,” as he drummed impatiently upon the 
damask teacloth. 

“ I do not understand Clotilde one little bit,” 
exclaimed the baroness, “and Cecil even less !” 

“ I give you a piece of good advice, Lottinka,” 
said the baron, ironically. “ You make the 
journey to Rome and set them straight.” 

“ With the greatest of pleasure,” answered 
the baroness, taking his ironical speech in sober 


ONE OF US. 


77 


earnest. “ But, unluckily, we have not got the 
cash.” 

The letter was finished . Like all the others 
written by Baroness Sterzl to her sister, it 
ended with: “ What a pity that you are not 
with us ; it would be so delightful to have you 
here.” 

The meal was over. The maid with great 
clatter of crockery and jostling of chairs had 
removed the tray ; the baron had withdrawn to 
have his usual game of bulka at the village inn 
with the peasants ; the others looked thought- 
ful. 

“ I must confess I should dearly like to go to 
Rome,” began Mme. Wolnitzka, brushing the 
crumbs with both hands from her lap On to 
the floor, “and it would be all the nicer to 
have one’s relations there. As for their fine 
acquaintances, I don’t care one straw for 
them.” 

“ I don’t see, if we were once there, why we 
should shun society,” exclaimed Slava, angrily. 

“Oh, well, you could go in for it if you 
liked,” returned the baroness, who had the 
greatest respect for her daughter. “ I should 
prefer to stay at home. For voyez-vous, mon 
cher Vladimir,” she added, turning affably to 
her prospective son-in-law, “ I don’t feel alto- 
gether comfortable at great entertainments ; 
if I cannot put on my slippers of an even- 
ing—” 

“ Mats maman” cried Bohuslava, indignantly, 
“ vous etes d'une inconvenance .” 

The baroness paused somewhat' intimidated. 


78 


ONE OF US. 


Every one was silent. Nothing was to be heard 
in the room but the crackling of the fire in the 
great tiled stove and the snoring of the old 
setter who had made himself a comfortable 
bed on the skirt of his mistress’s dress. 

“ If we could but find a purchaser for the 
Bernini,” murmured the baroness,- resuming 
the thread of her conversation. The Bernini 
is a bust of Apollo, one of the treasures in- 
herited by the baroness from her mother, and 
supposed to be a free copy by Bernini of the 
Belvedere Apollo. Every time the Wolnitzky 
family find themselves in a financial crisis the 
said “ Bernini ” is dispatched to some fresh 
curiosity dealer, whence, after a longer or 
shorter period, it always comes back unsold. 
A few daj's since this much-traveled Apollo — 
he had been to New York, to London and to 
St. Petersburg — had returned from a twelve- 
months sojourn at Meyer’s of Berlin. 

“ Tiens, Vladimir, you have not seen it yet,” 
exclaimed Slava. “ I must show you our 
Apollo.” 

“ If it be the head that is said to resemble 
you so strikingly it does greatly interest me,” 
returned the young Pole, with an ardent look 
at the handsome Slava. 

“ Bring the lamp ; the bust is in the drawing- 
room.” 

Bearing the lamp, Vladimir preceded the 
two ladies into the drawing-room, a large, 
scantily furnished apartment, only dusted once 
a month. There, in a corner, on a marble 
stand, stood the handsome god — clearty a copy 


ONE OF US. 


79 


m 

of the Belvedere Apollo, but whether by 
Bernini — 

“The likeness is striking*,” cried Vladimir, 
ecstatically, alternately gazing at the bust and 
then at his fiancee. “ Oh ! it is a work of art ; 
you oug*ht never to part with it ! ” 

“ Well, I must say, I would rather g*o to 
Rome,” sighed the baroness. 

Slava merely bit her lips with vexation. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ And what are we going to do to-morrow ? ” 
was Sempaly’s almost constant inquir\r every 
evening, when he met Zinka in society, smiling 
and lovelj'. He had set himself the task of 
helping her to find her “ lost Rome,” and was 
devoting himself to the task with exemplary 
assiduit} r . 

The disillusion experienced by Zinka as she 
made her first round among the ruins of the 
Imperial City, charioteered by her talkative 
driver, is one of very ordinary occurrence, and 
experienced by almost every one who, with 
mind stored with the Roman mysticism of mod- 
ern literature, for the first time looks upon those 
ruins, penned in, as are their glories, between 
the bare, dingy - looking houses of modern 
growth. And the feeling is the stronger among 
those travelers who reach Rome after a pro- 


80 


ONE OF US. 


longed sojourn in Northern Italy, in Venice or 
Verona. Of the bewitching grace of North 
Italian cities Rome possesses absolutely noth- 
ing. Its architecture is heavy and gloomy, its 
coloring in winter mostly a chilly mixture of 
cold grays and blue-greens, rather reminding 
one of washed-out water - colors than of the 
rich tones of paintings in oils. In vain does one 
long here for the golden reflections of the la- 
goons, the fantastic stone carvings of Venice, 
or for the half-effaced frescoes and sunny, am- 
ber-toned glories of Verona. 

“Rome, after North Italian cities, has the 
effect upon one of some grand Chorale of 
Handel, after two entrancing Nocturnes of 
Chopin. The first impression is disappoint- 
ing / 7 said Sempaly once to Zinka, “ but in 
time we begin to tire of the Nocturnes — of the 
Chorale never ! 77 

Upon which Zinka made reply : 

“ The Chorale is overpowered by so much 
street-organ music that I have the greatest 
difficulty in making it out at all . 77 

But with a laugh, he said : 

“ Tell me a fortnight hence if its tones do not 
reach you more distinctly . 77 

In a fortnight Zinka had thrown her two 
soldi into the Fontana di Trevi to make sure 
that this was not her last visit to Rome ; and 
was outdoing General von Klinger in her enthu- 
siasm for everything Roman. 

Sempaly had honestly contributed to her con- 
version. She could not have had a more amus- 
ing or interesting cicerone to guide her through 


ONE OF US. 


81 


every nook and corner of the beautiful city. 
He was forever remembering’ fresh wonders 
which it was imperative to show her. Now it 
was some beautiful old bas-relief, that had been 
clapped on to some orange-hued house over a 
tobacconist’s shop ; now the remains of a 
heathen divinity, figuring in the courtyard of 
a Catholic convent, and to which some inge- 
nious artist had endeavored to add a pair of 
angel’s wings. 

He rode out far into the Campagna with her 
to show her picturesque portions of the Trasta- 
vere. He could find some word of jest or irony 
for the most solemn things. The halls of the 
Vatican peopled with statues where a liberal- 
minded Christian rule has afforded an asylum 
to pensioned heathendom, he named the City of 
the Gods ; and St. Peter’s, called by Italians 
la yarocchi dei forestieri, he named the Grand 
Hotel Catholique. At every sarcophagus con- 
verted into a reservoir, every fragment of 
ancient bas-relief or picturesque heap of ruins, 
he would recall or invent some half-humorous, 
half-pathetic historical event bearing upon it, 
though without the least suspicion of holding 
forth. 

He had a charmingly unpretending art of 
suggesting, rather than of telling, an anecdote. 
He never presented it, so to speak, preten- 
tiously upon a salver, but seemed to let it drop 
carelessly from his lips. 

His knowledge of art was not deep ; but his 
feeling for art, as with all his instincts, was 
most subtle. His knowledge, in fact, on every 


82 


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point was highly superficial ; and, as Charles 
Lamb expresses it, there was not one whole 
coat in his intellectual wardrobe. But he could 
drape himself in his tatters without ever hiding 
the holes, but with the most consummate grace. 

Count Truyn and his little daughter often 
joined these expeditions, sometimes Cecil also, 
though he always chose the days when his 
mother was not of the party. His behavior 
during these peripatetic athletics, as he called 
them, was singularly characteristic of the man. 
Somewhat taciturn, always keenly observant, 
he would walk beside, or perhaps behind, Sem- 
paly and Zinka. Now and then he would dryly 
correct the former in his dates, which Sempaly 
would suffer with most lofty nonchalance and 
acknowledge — alwa3^s raising his hat — with re- 
gal courtesy. Sterzl only admired the powerful 
examples of Renaissance school. The Primitives, 
beloved of Zinka, he smiled at as distorted 
caricatures ; Guido Reni, the Greuze of Italian 
artists, the Chopin among painters — for whom 
Sempaly had a slight weakness— was simply re- 
pugnant to him. He declared that the head- 
dress of Beatrice Cenci looked like a cold-water 
bandage ; the whole picture a mere study of a 
head, probably sketched by Guido of some mad 
woman in a lunatic asylum. 

The somewhat mystical and sentimental 
phraseology occasionally adopted by Zinka 
when speaking of her favorite antiquities and 
works of art, he received with a silent, ever good- 
humored smile, inwardly despising all exaggera- 
tions as sentimentality and affectation. 


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83 




Yet, ever considerate of his sister's feelings, 
did he see the tears start to her eyes at the 
sight of a Francia, or did she grow pale and 
quote Shelley when she spoke of the Florentine 
Medusa of Leonardo, he would, at most, shrug 
liis shoulders and pinch her ear, as he said : 
“Zinka, what a mad child you are ! ” 
Everything in his sister pleased him, even to 
her want of common sense. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Baroness Sterzl had at last found a house 
in some degree answering to her requirements, 
a small palazzo in a street leading off from the 
Corso, “ furnished in most execrable taste, but 
otherwise not objectionable." 

The palazetto was a treasure in its way, 
with simple, noble-looking Renaissance facade, 
and an arcade inclosing a courtyard, in the 
center of which was a plashing fountain, over- 
shadowed by red camelias. Some fine old 
half-destroyed statues stood about ; among 
others the well-known one of the Wounded 
Amazon, at the feet of which blossomed a 
rose bush. 

Zinka found this Amazon most picturesque, 
and sketched it under its every imaginable 
aspect m her album, without ever under- 


84 


ONE OF US. 


standing the prophetic sadness of her ex- 
pression. 

Poor Zinka, ! She was blinded by the sun- 
light in her eyes. How could Cecil allow this 
daily increasing intimacy between Sempaly and 
his sister ? Sempaly’s eldest brother, the prince, 
had been married for ten years and had no chil- 
dren ; thus the attache, as his probable heir, 
was constrained to make a suitable alliance. 

Was Sterzl not aware of this fact ? He did 
know it, but gave it no further thought. That 
the marriage of a girl of the middle class with 
a Count Sempaly was an affair of no every-day 
occurrence he was well aware ; nor did he par- 
ticularly desire that it should become so. He 
was no democrat, but old-fashioned, very 
peculiar, and conservative in his views, as far 
removed from sycophancy as from envy of 
those of higher rank than himself. That Sem- 
paly should have married any other girl in his 
sister’s station in life would undoubtedly have 
struck him as a very singular proceeding. But 
Zinka — Zinka was a girl of girls. He wor- 
shiped her as only a strong elder brother can 
worship a young, delicate sister. To his mind 
no social position was too high for her. 

And seeing Sempaly smile down, at once so 
affectionately and deferentially, on his beloved 
little “ butterfly,” as he called his sister, he re- 
joiced in her happiness and cherished no mis- 
givings. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Zinka was not sentimental. Her intercourse 
with Count Sempaly had proceeded for some 
time without exciting in her the trace of any 
deeper feeling. One merry speech followed an- 
other, while her eyes would sparkle with wanton 
mischief. Gradually, however, there came a 
change ; her manner grew softer and sweeter, 
a most bewitching lauguor would invade even 
her merriest moods, and in the midst of laugh- 
ter there would be the glistening of tears in her 
eyes. Sempaly’s visits to the palazetto became 
irregular ; sometimes for two, even three days 
he came not, then again he would enter an ap- 
pearance at noon, merely invite himself to 
lunch, drive out w r ith the ladies of the house, 
accept an unceremonious invitation to dine with 
them en famille, and did Zinka look pale or 
seem any way depressed, would exert himself 
by all manner of affectionate attention and 
consideration to charm back the bright smile 
to her lips. Sometimes affecting melancholy, 
he would tell of his loveless childhood, and ex- 
cite her compassion. He would speak of his 
elder brother, dilate upon his many excellen- 
cies, ending up with a shrug of the shoulders : 
“ Yes ; he is a fine fellow, but — he has his pecul- 
iarities.” 

Did Zinka ask what were these peculiarities ? 
he would only sigh, sometimes adding: “Ah, 


86 


ONE OP US. 


well, I hope you will make his acquaintance one 
day, then you can judge for yourself. ” But 
this was always said in a half-hearted way, and 
as if repenting having said it. 

Sometimes speaking of some particular pict- 
ure in the Sempaly collection in Vienna, or of 
some other family possession, he would say 
how he hoped some day to be able to show 
them to Zinka. 

He loved best to talk to her of Erzburg. This 
old castle, the summer resort of the Sempalys 
for generations, was especially dear to him. 
Otherwise he was entirely free from family 
predilections — would call the Sempaly palace an 
unhealthy barrack ; would scoff at the Sempaly 
stud ; make merry over the shape of the family 
nose, and mockingly praise the traditional Sem- 
paly tokay ; but once touch upon Erzburg, and 
he waxed enthusiastic. To the Oriental luxury 
with which a great portion of the castle was 
furnished — perhaps not strictly in good taste — 
he never alluded ; it was perhaps rather upon 
the deficiencies of Erzburg, than of its advan- 
tages, that he would descant ; but then in such 
a tender, deprecating tone ! He would tell of 
the great, bare apartments in which for years, 
half lovingly, half shudderingly, he used to 
expect, always vainly, to see the White Lady 
appear ; would tell of the melancholy creak of 
the weather-cock, of the old rococo statues in 
the park, and of the gentle, murmuring sound 
of the lakes, covered with pale water lilies. 

He would allow that the ornamental statues 
were worthless, the stagnant pools unhealthy ; 


ONE OF US. 


87 


the while there would be a kind of reverence in 
his usually mocking- eyes. Once when Zinka 
had grown quite sad over his varied recitals, 
he took her hand and, pressing it tenderty to 
his lips, murmured : “ You must learn to love 
Erzburg.” 

His demeanor to Zinka was that of a man 
who has made up his mind as to the step he is 
about to take, but who, at the present moment, 
is not at liberty openly to ask the hand of the 
girl whom in his inmost heart he has *alread3 T 
selected for his wife. What was he really aim- 
ing at in all this ? What were his intentions ? 
To my mind he had none. He simply allowed 
himself to drift. There are such selfish, syba- 
ritic men who suffer themselves to float along the 
stream of life, never taking the trouble to lift 
a hand to guide the rudder. For the most part 
happily constituted, they usually gain a harbor 
without having suffered any serious harm to 
themselves, and if perchance on their passively 
egotistical course they may have happened, all 
smiling and good-humored, to have run down 
some less fortunate life’s bark, with a carelessly 
amiable (( beg pardon ” they pass on, fully 
persuaded that fate, and not their doing, -has 
been the cause of the mishap. 


88 


ONE OF US. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was toward the end of February, shortly 
before the close of Carnival, that Count Truyn 
and his little daughter, calling to takeZinka for 
a walk, saw a cab with portmanteau upon it 
standing at the door of the Sterzls’ palazetto ; 
while CeciTs valet, a very correct young man, 
with carefully brushed hair and smooth-shaven 
upper lip, short whiskers and imposing watch 
chain, stood by it exchanging a few condescend- 
ing words with the driver and blinking sleepily 
in the sunlight. 

The drawing-room to which Truyn and his 
little companion made their way unannounced 
was filled^with a bluish-white radiance, the un- 
hindered sunbeams causing innumerable atoms 
to pursue their dazzling dance. Zinka stood in 
the center of the room resting both hands on 
the table, bending over a magnificent basket of 
flowers. The somewhat quaint grace of her 
attitude, the exquisite lines of her bust, the be- 
witching loveliness of her smiling yet agitated 
face, added to the softness of the white-flowing 
gown she wore — made a picture which Tru}m 
never forgot. A sunbeam nestling in her hair 
revealed it in all its golden beauty, her whole 
figure was radiant with a sweet, intense, spring- 
like felicity. The flower basket was, moreover, 
a marvelous production, a wealth of lilies-of-the- 


ONE OF US. 


89 


valley, gardenias, snow-drops and pale-pink 
roses, as though borne thither by the coating 
breath of the spring breezes. 

Sterzl stood beside her, a good-humored smile 
upon his face ; the baroness, the picture of as- 
tonished affectation, a little apart, was holding 
a visiting card in her hand. Neither brother 
nor sister — he absorbed in looking at her, she 
at the flowers — had heard Truyn's entrance. 
The baroness alone had u come in ” in response 
to his knock, and now offered him the tips of 
her fingers, lisping, as she waved her hand to- 
ward the exquisite floral achievement: “ Can 
you conceive such extravagance ? ” 

Hereupon, Zinka looking up, welcomed him 
affectionately, as did Sterzl. 

“ It is quite too foolish — too extravagant,” 
sighed the baroness anew ; “a basket of 
flowers like that must have cost a fortune. 
Why, a single gardenia — ” 

Zinka scornfully pursed her lips, while 
Sterzl remarked with his dry humor : Pray 
do not dispel Zinka’s illusions, mother ; the 
basket is heaven-sent to her; it is useless to 
tell her that it is only one of many others ex- 
posed for sale in the Yia Condotti or the Ba- 
buino. What do you think, count ? Sempaly 
sends it to console her for her brother's de- 
parture. Rather a far-fetched reason— his 
usual fine speech-making — don't you think 
so? I don't think that you will mind my 
being away for a day or two so very much — 
eh, butterfly?” and he put his hand affection- 
ately under her chin. 


90 


ONE OF US. 


“ Where are you off to so suddenly ?” asked 
Truyn, gravely. 

“ To Naples. Franz Arnsperg wired me to 
meet him there, if possible. He is a great 
friend of mine, has just been transferred from 
Constantinople to Paris, and is making the 
detour by way of Naples on purpose to meet 
me.” 

“ He is an Arnsperg-Meiringen, you know, 
whose estates lie near* ours,” interpolated the 
baroness. 

Sterzl, well aware that Count Truyn must 
know far more about the Arnsperg-Meiringens 
than his mother did, listened to her speech with 
annoyance and embarrassment ; but kissing 
her hand in farewell, he said, turning to his 
sister : “ God bless you, butterfly. Is it too 
much to ask for a few lines from your fty-away 
pen while I am away ? ” Then as he kissed her, 
he added in a low voice : “ Mind, child, that I 
find 3 r ou looking as bright and happy when I 
come back.” 

Truyn, who accompanied Sterzl to his cab, 
still looked ver\ r grave. He and General von 
Klinger had for some time been watching Sein- 
paly ? s doings with serious uneasiness, know- 
ing, as they both did, his impulsive nature, so 
easily affected by the feeling of the moment. 
Truyn’s only reason for not having spoken to 
Sempaly on the subject hitherto had been that, 
knowing his temperament, he had feared only 
still further to excite his opposition, without ob- 
taining any good results; while the general, 
being possessed of the Stockmar repugnance to 


ONE OF US. 


91 


mix himself up in affairs that did not actually 
concern him, was equally averse to open Sterzl’s 
eyes to the state of things. The dread of 
committing one’s self is society’s shield for 
leaving things alone. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

It is Shrove Tuesda}'. The most dejected- 
looking cab-hack to-day displays a paper rose 
behind his ear, although during Carnival- time 
one-horse vehicles are treated as pariahs, and 
are not permitted to drive along the Corso. 
Two-horse carriages on hire have an immunity, 
and are to be seen decorated with garlands of 
flowers, the horses proudly displaying a tuft of 
feathers on their heads. The Piazza di Spagno 
is overflowing with flowers and Moccolo sellers, 
while strangers from all parts are eagerly bar- 
gaining with them. There are baskets innu- 
merable of violets, roses, anemones and stocks, 
and, again, other baskets filled with indescrib- 
able bundles of decayed vegetables. Carnival 
store, which, having done duty for the past 
three days, now look more like the handfuls of 
green stuff used by our maids to rub their 
boards with than once gay flowers. 

Coral and tortoise-shell stall-keepers call to 
the passers-by : “ Come, buy — buy — e came - 


92 


ONE OF US. 


vale ,” and in side streets (for poverty to-day is 
banished from the principal streets and squares) 
beggars are more than ever rife, pressing* up to 
busy pedestrians with their mournful “muojo 
di fame” 

The Corso wears to-day its most festive 
garb. From every balcony flutters a colored 
hanging; numberless stands have been erected ; 
window-sills are draped, some with gay-colored 
bunting, others with gold - embroidered bro- 
cades. 

Thursday, Saturday and Monday Zinka and 
Gabrielle, escorted by Count Truyn, have driven 
unweariedly for hours up and down the Corso, 
throwing bouquets at friends and strangers 
alike. To-day they have decided to watch the 
proceedings from one of the windows of Palazzo 
Yulpini, as Carnival assumes a riotous aspect 
toward the close. All who reside on^ the Corso 
seize the opportunity to pay off old debts, and 
invite as many guests as can be conveniently 
crowded into the different windows. 

A goodly assemblage had collected at Prin- 
cess Vulpini’s, for the most part consisting of 
the Italian relatives of the prince. Mesdames 
de Gaudiw and Ferguson were there, self-in- 
vited, and Zinka and Gabrielle Truyn. Baroness 
Sterzl was suffering from tic douloureux , which 
prevented her going out, more to her own than 
to any one else’s regret. At six o’clock, before 
the battle of Moccoli, they were all to repair to 
the Falcone, a renowned Roman restaurant, 
where they would dine better and more com- 
fortably than at home ; thence to go to the 


ONE OF US. 


93 


mask ball at Teatro Constanzi. This truly 
Roman Carnival programme had been devised 
by Prince Vulpini in special honor of the Count- 
ess Schalingen, who was a passionate admirer 
of everything Roman and was enchanted at the 
local color thus given to it. The princess sub- 
mitted with resignation — she felt no interest in 
Roman local color, and had an invincible mis- 
trust of the Italian national cuisine and of 
masquerade license. 

It is three o’clock. Baskets heaped with 
flowers, and boxes of tempting-looking bon- 
bons stand invitingly read}^ in every window. 

The little Vulpinis, to whom the big double 
window in the great drawing-room has been 
assigned, are now led in by their black-garbed, 
shy-looking English governess. They hop in 
on one leg and pull each other’s hair in their 
impatience and happy expectation. As the gov- 
erness in low voice reproves these bad man- 
ners, the eldest replies: “ Ma e carmval’e at 
which all the guests laugh, and the . English- 
woman subsides. 

Now all the company has assembled. Mes- 
dames de Gaudry and Ferguson both look 
charmingly picturesque, the first wearing a 
fez, the second a gold-embroidered Eastern 
muslin draped round her head in honor of 
Carnival, which allows any becoming eccen- 
tricity and only wages war against conventional 
head-coverings. Leveled from windows into 
carriages, from carriages to windows, fly 
the fragrant projectiles, pretty bonbonnieres 
from Spillman and Mazzari whirl in among 


94 


ONE OF US. 


them, dainty paper devices, many-hued, lightly 
folded, quiver through the air. 

From the Piazza di Venezia comes the incisive 
sounds of a military band. Processions of mas- 
queraders mix in among the carriages. 

One of the most animated windows in all the 
Corso was undoubtedly the children’s window in 
Palazzo Vulpini. Zinka stands in the midst of 
the little group, having at their pressing solici- 
tation undertaken the guardianship of the little 
people so devoted to her. 

She and Gabrielle vie with each other in merri- 
ment, finding time amid their fun to show the shy 
English governess many a kind attention, even 
to fastening one of the freshest bunches of 
lilies-of-the-valley in the front of her sober 
black silk dress, redolent of camphor. Of 
course the greatest attraction of all to the 
children is Korina’s drag, because they not 
only know the principe who holds the ribbons, 
but also the gentlemen with him — Counts Truyn, 
Siegburg^hnd Sempaly. When his team of four 
dun-colored horses pass, the little Vulpinis 
literally jump with delight and twitter together 
to such a degree until their window sounds for 
all the world like a big bird cage ; and the gen- 
tlemen laughingly raise their hats and aim and 
throw with chivalrous skill countless bouquets 
into the windows of Palazzo Vulpini. 

The most lovely flowers to-day, however, are 
unquestionably showered upon Zinka. The 
ground about her is strewn with violets, stocks 
and roses. She holds a huge bouquet of roses 


ONE OF US. 


95 


in her hand. It is Sempaly who has thrown 
them to her. 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” exclaimed Mme. de Gaudry, re- 
treating from her window to rest a while and 
recruit her flagging powers with a glass of wine. 
“ Why, mademoiselle,” she says, eying Zinka’s 
floral wealth with a look of envy. “The men 
have been giving you an ovation like any prima 
donna ! ” 

Zinka nods ; then bending with comical dis- 
tress over her hat, fallen off her head in the ex- 
citement of the battle, and arranging its feath- 
ers, she says : My poor hat will be glad to see 
Ash Wednesday.” 

“ Delightful, Marie, perfectly delightful is 
your Roman Carnival — a never-to-be-forgotten 
sight ! ” cried Countess Schalingen, drawing 
back into the room. A thorough Austrian, she 
is ever ready to go off into ecstacies. 

“ Bah ! ” returns the prince. “ With this new 
Government, Carnival has degenerated into a 
mere display for foreigners and street boys.” 

The Berberi have dashed past, the procession 
has recommenced, but without exciting further 
interest. The hubbub in the street below has 
somewhat subsided, and Sempaly, Truyn, 
Norina, Siegburg and the general have come 
to Palazzo Vulpini as arranged, to escort the 
ladies to the Falcone. 

The children have been kissed and sent up- 
stairs to their dinner, Gabrielle a little tearful 
at not being allowed to go with the grown-ups, 
her father somewhat unhappy at his little com- 


96 


ONE OF US. 


rade’s disappointment. Zinka had begged to 
stay with the children to console her little friend, 
but this had not been allowed. 

“ Too many of us would want to follow your 
example,” Princess Vulpini had said, deject- 
edly, to whom this notion of an exodus to a 
Roman restaurant was becoming more and 
more distasteful. 

The party are to go on foot, and begin to 
make preparations to start. Thanks to the 
many plans and counterplans the one quiet 
period of Carnival before the battle of Moccoli 
has been suffered to slip b3 r . As they emerged 
into the street, the crowd at one time lessened, 
had now grown dense again. Twilight descends 
like a gray veil upon the city. The gay-colored, 
inflammable draperies have been withdrawn 
from windows and balconies; Carnival is divest- 
ng itself of its ball dress. The first reddish-hued 
flames begin to glisten like fireflies through the 
twilight, and are as instantly assailed by a hail- 
storm of hard Mazetti and vegetables, princi- 
pally from the streets. 

“ Fuori, fuori ,” is the monotonous chant, fol- 
lowed by “ Senza moccolo vergogna / ” 

The climax of Carnival has begun. The 
situation is anything but agreeable to our Aus- 
trians, who can neither protect the ladies of 
their party from being pushed about in the 
crowd, nor deaden their ears to the course wit 
flying about among the people. 

At length they have succeeded in threading 
their way out of the Corso ; have lost each 
other in by-streets, some going by the way of 


ONE OF US. 


97 




the Via Maddalena, others across the Piazza de 
la Rotunda, and finally, after various small 
excitements, have reached the Falcone, the 
ladies’ toilets looking' all the worse for the 
struggle, Princess V alpini more dejected than 
ever. 

The Falcone is an unpretentious house, 
where the waiters wear white jackets instead 
of the decorous dress coat. Its prices are rea- 
sonable, its resotto celebrated. Prince Vulpini 
orders an Italian dinner in one of the upper 
rooms. Suddenly Count Truyn exclaims un- 
easily : 

“ Where are Zinka and Sempaly ? ” 

“They must have stopped chatting* on the 
way,” says Mme. de Gaudry, with slightly puck- 
ered lips, as leaning back in her chair she draws 
off her gloves. “ People always lag behind when 
they have something to say to each other.” 

Truyn frowns. “ I greatly fear that they 
have got into some crush and have been unable 
to make their way out. I always thought this 
an absurd expedition. I really cannot think, 
Marie, how you could have dreamed of such a 
thing — ” 

“I ? ” returned his sister in a dispirited voice 
and with a speaking look. Then she is silent. 
He knows perfectly that she is as innocent of 
having planned this pleasure-party as an angel 
in heaven. 

“ Mais qu ’ avez^vous done?” growls Prince 
Vulpini, showering the parmesan into his soup, 
while Mrs. Ferguson plaintively asserts that 
she is starving, a somewhat incredible asser- 


98 


ONE OF US. 


tion in view of the quantity of bonbons she has 
consumed since lunch. Mme. de Gaudry asks 
for all possible and impossible Paris delicacies, 
which the Falcone knoweth not. 

Countess Schalingen commends Italian cook- 
ery, and laments that she has no appetite. 

Anxiously Truyn and the general keep their 
eyes upon the entrance door. Zinka and Sem- 
paly have not appeared — Truyn conceals hisun- 
easiness less and less effectually. “ I cannot con- 
ceive why you should excite 3 r ourself to such an 
extent, count/' observes Mme. de Gaudry, with 
perfidious smile. “ If Fraulein Sterzl is a little 
behind hand, Sempaly will take good care of 
her. Now, had she been intrusted to any one 
less reliable, any one with whom she is less in- 
timate — then, of course, I could understand — ” 

Here Truyn, passing his hand uneasily over 
his iron-gray hair, mutters in his native Ger- 
man : “ This woman will be the death of me! ” 
and continues to heap reproaches on his sister. 
Another quarter of an hour goes by. Despite 
the somewhat slow waiting the party have ar- 
rived at dessert. Still no sign of Zinka and 
Sempaly. 

“ I begin to feel seriously uneasy,” says the 
princess. “1 trust the poor child has not 
fainted in the crowd.” 

Mme. de Gaudry, drawing down the corner of 
her lips, scornfully murmurs : “ It would be the 
wisest thing she could do, I should say.” 

Truyn hears the abominable insinuation, and 
bites his lip. 

Then the door opens and Zinka and Sempaly 


ONE OF US. 


99 


enter— she with glad, serene eyes, he looking 
somewhat annoyed. 

“ Thank Heaven ! ” cries Truyn. 

“ Whatever has happened to you ? ” asks the 
princess, as Truyn draws up a chair for Zinka 
beside his sister. 

“ What has happened to us ? ” answers Sem- 
paly, irascibly ; “ the most natural thing in the 
world. We got into the thick of the crowd, 
and could not make our wa y out again.” 

“Is not that a little peculiar?” observed 
Mme. de Gaudry, with a meaning smile. “We 
all managed to get through.” 

“ Perhaps you may remember that we were 
the last of the party, countess. We had hardly 
gone twenty steps when the crowd before us 
became denser ; we hurried on, tried to force a 
way through — I could have done it easily alone, 
but with a lady — Suddenly there broke out a 
volley of abuse and recrimination; oaths, blows, 
dagger thrusts ensued, etc. I cannot describe 
the hateful situation in that throng with a lady 
— a young girl under my protection ! ” 

“Fraulein Sterzl appears to have taken the 
situation much more calmly than .you, Count 
Sempaly,” interposed Mme. de Gaudr\ r , mali- 
ciously ; “ the adventure does not seem to have 
caused her any alarm.” 

“ Fraulein Zinka was very plucky,” replied 
Sempaly. 

“ Why should I have been afraid ? ” asked 
Zinka, her eyes full of the naive unconscious- 
ness of perfect innocence ; “ Count Sempaly 
was responsible for our safe passage, not I.” 


100 ONE OF US. 

Mme. de Gaudry gave a mocking laugh. “ I 
suppose we must be going/’ said she, “ if we are 
to get to the Costanzi to-night.” 

There followed a pushing back of chairs ; a 
confusion of general offers of assistance ; a 
general mixed condition of the ladies’ wraps. 

Princess Yulpini made no sign of leaving her 
chair. “ I shall do no more to-night,” she 
said, very energetically for her; “I shall not 
take Zinka to the Costanzi. I shall simpty 
wait here with her until she has had some- 
thing to eat, and then drive her home. I wish 
the rest of the party a pleasant evening.” 

Zinka demolished her beef-steak with the 
greatest composure and best of appetites, was 
happy, contented, and affectionate as ever, and 
had not the least idea that her name, next day, 
would be in every one’s mouth. 

Truyn, however, was pale and uneasy. He 
had plainly heard Mme. de Gaudry whisper to 
her friend : “Now the banns must follow.” 


ONE OF US. 


101 


BOOK SECOND 


LENT. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Glad to find you at home ! 77 exclaimed 
Count Truyn the next morning- to Sempaly, 
whom he found, book in hand, in the act of 
winding* up his dejeuner a la fourchette with the 
customary cup of coffee. His suite of bachelor 
apartments was in the Palazzo Venezia. 

“ Glad to see your unsociable self here at 
last / 7 replied Sempaly. “ I will show you my 
new Francia — that is, the dealer who sold it me 
swore it was a Francia — But you look pre~ 
occupied. What, may I ask, bring-s you here ? 77 

“ I merely looked in to ask if — ’hm ! — you 
were driving- to Frascati with us this after- 
noon ? 77 

“ To Frascati this afternoon ? My dear fel- 
low^ what an idea ! 77 returned Sempaly, amazed. 
“ Anyway, it would be quite impossible ; I am 
engaged to go to the Palatine with the Sterzls 
at three. 7 ’ 

“Ah ! 77 exclaimed Truyn, his face assuming 
a serious expression. 

“ May I offer you a cup of coffee ? 77 asked 
Sempaly, carelessly. 


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“No, thank you,” returned Truyn, dryly. 

Visibly discomposed, he busied himself exam- 
ining’ the various knick-knacks while regaining 
his composure. Accidentally he took up the 
book Sempaly had been reading on his entrance. 
It was the Essays of Elia. Upon the title-page 
was written in a large, firm handwriting : 

“ In friendly remembrance of a serious quar- 
rel. Zink a Sterzl.” 

“ The child lost a bet with me a little while 
ago,” explained Sempaly. “ There is a second 
still pending, to be decided at the Palatine to- 
day.” 

Truyn, closing the book emphatically, laid it 
down. Then, leaning his elbows on the table, 
by which he had seated himself, and looking 
Sempaly earnestly and searchingly in the face, 
said : 

“ Do you intend to marry that girl ? ” 

Sempaly started. 

“ What the devil do you mean ! ” he cried. 
But on Truyn remaining silent and still con- 
tinuing to look scrutinizingly at him, he sud- 
denly assumed a defiant air. Challenging his 
cousin with an angry look he said, roughly : 

“ And suppose I do ? ” 

“Then I trust you will not be wanting in the 


necessary determination to carry out that in- 
tention/ ’ replied Truyn ; “ for in such a case to 
stop half way is nothing* short of a crime ! ” 
Breathing heavily, his eyes sought the ground. 

Far from clearing, Sempaly’s face clouded 
over still more. He had counted upon violent 
opposition, but his cousin’s quiet, well-nigh en- 
couraging tone of acquiescence caused him to 
feel like a man who, having strained every nerve 
to lift a heavy block of iron, finds it instead to 
be a piece of cardboard, light as a feather. He 
lost all self-control. “ Upon my soul/’ cried he, 
furiously, “ you speak as calmly as if it were 
a matter of choosing a partner for a cotillion. 
In plain speaking, the thing is simply an im- 
possibility. What should we have to live upon ? 
I have long ago run through my own money ; 
my brother, did I commit such a step, would 
cut me off with a shilling ; and Zinka is not of 
age. I certainly might take to selling wax 
tapers at the corners of the streets in order to 
keep my wife, which would have the immense 
advantage of causing my mother-in-law to dis- 
own me. Or do you. suppose me capable of 
allowing myself to be supported by Frau Clo- 
tilde Sterzl during Zinka’s minority ? ” 

“ Well,” observed Truyn, very calmly, “ see- 
ing that you take such a common-sense view of 
the impossibility of marriage with Zinka, I must 


104 


ONE OF US. 

say that your conduct toward her is altogether 
unjustifiable.” Truyn was still sitting by the 
little table, on which stood the choice coffee ser- 
vice, while Sempaly, his hands in his pockets, 
was striding angrily up and down the room 
with the air of a man who knows himself to be 
in the wrong, and ever and anon knocking up 
against some piece of furniture in his way. 

“ I can’t make you out ! ” he cried suddenly, 
stopping short irately before his cousin. “ Sterzl 
has never expressed the slightest exception to 
my conduct ; and I think he stands in somewhat 
closer relation to Zinka than you do ! ” 

Truyn slightly changed color at these words ; 
but quickly recovering self-command, he re- 
plied : 

“ Sterzl, despite all his outward straightfor- 
wardness, is an idealist, who would strive to 
bring down the very stars from heaven for his 
sister. He has not the remotest doubt but that 
you entertain the most honorable intentions to- 
ward her.” 

“ Don’t tell me such stuff,” growled Sempaly. 

“But such is the case,” insisted Truyn. 

“Poor fellow ! he thinks his sister a match 
for any one.” 

“And, by Jove, he is right,” exclaimed Sem- 
paly, “ perfectly right. But I am fettered by 
circumstances — the claims of birth.” 


He had seated himself upon the sill of one of 
the deep embrasured windows, his elbows on his 
knees and face sunk in his hands, and was now 
gazing moodily before him. 

“ But allow me this one question, what is the 
cause of your mixing yourself up in this afiair?” 

“I have long had it at heart,” responded 
Truyn. “ The immediate cause that constrains 
me to speak to you to-day is that Mrs. Fergu- 
son and Countess de Gaudry, before you reached 
the Falcone last^ evening, allowed themselves 
to make remarks of a nature to assure me that 
your continued attentions to Zinka were begin- 
ning to affect her reputation ! ” 

“ As if it were necessary to trouble one’s self 
about the opinion of such people ! ” cried Sem- 
paly, wrathfully. Then went on to talk about 
his responsibilities, in which what one owes to 
one’s position, care of one’s property, etc., 
came in. 

A look of icy contempt passed over his 
cousin’s handsome face. After listening for a 
while to the specious pleadings, he broke in 
with : 

“ No fencing, I beg. The matter is perfectly 
simple. Do you love Zinka ? ” 

The attache drew his eyebrows together. 
“Yes,” he murmured, half angrily. 

“ Yerv good. And you lack the courage to 


106 


ONE OF US. 


face the disagreeables that would result 
from union with her?” 

Sempaly was silent. 

“Then, my dear fellow,” resumed Truyn, 
“ there remains but one alternative ; that is, 
to break off your intimacy with Zinka as gently, 
but as rapidly, as possible.” 

“ That I neither can nor will do ! ” retorted 
Sempaly, stamping his foot. 

“ If within three days you have not taken the 
necessary measures to get yourself transferred 
to some other embassy, I shall feel myself com- 
pelled either to give Sterzl a hint how things 
are going — or your brother— whichever you 
may prefer,” said Truyn, resolutely. “ Good- 
morning.” 

“Good-morning,” returned Sempaly, without 
moving. 

Truyn strode toward the door. On the 
threshold he turned, saying, somewhat hesi- 
tatingly : “ Don’t take it amiss, Nicki. I could 
not act otherwise. Think, my dear fellow. 
Duty is a bitter morsel to swallow, but has 
a pleasant after- taste ! ” 


ONE OF US. 


107 


■a? - 




CHAPTER II. 

“ Poor girl ! poor lovely child ! ” murmured 
Truyn, as he descended the gray marble steps 
of Palazzo di Venezia. “To prate now of the 
claims of birth, of stress of circumstances, of 
national economy — now. Good heavens ! ?? He 
lit a cigar, then threw it hastily from him. 
“ Bah ! To meet a girl like Zinka — be loved by 
her — and to be a free man ! ” 

He emerged hastily on the piazza. The house 
porter, standing at the entrance, marveled that 
the count, usually so courteous, passed him by 
this time without acknowledging his respectful 
salutation. Such a thing had never happened 
before since he had known him. 

He was a strange fellow, this young gray- 
headed Count Truyn. Brought up amid the 
happiest of home circumstances, hurried against 
his better convictions into a marriage with the 
handsome Princess Gabrielle Zinsenburg, he 
had never been able to reconcile himself to 
the superficial worldly nature of his married 
life with the cold, heartless woman, who, some 
years older than himself, had never rested until 


108 


ONE OF US. 


she had succeeded in bringing 1 about a marriage 
with him. 

A few years later they had mutually agreed 
to an amicable separation. He had given her 
his name, she gave up to him their child. His 
life was spoiled. Condemned to shut up the 
wealth of affection his warm, noble heart would 
fain have lavished, his spirit grew more and 
more despondent. His love for his child, great 
as it was, did not suffice to give his life the act- 
ive interest it needed ; through all his being 
there ran a chord of harsh dissonance. Having 
for years lived more or less abroad, his ideas 
had widened to the complete surrender of many 
a true Austrian prejudice. Yet he was looked 
upon as reactionary in Austria, because he al- 
ways voted with his party ; in truth, he was 
not reactionary, but merety profoundly indiffer- 
ent to politics in general. He smiled alike at 
the unscrupulousness of the Left, the enthu- 
siasm of the Right ; and the perfecting of the 
Constitution he considered, in his heart, to be a 
thankless office. He was far from satisfied 
with the order of the world, but to his mind it 
needed to be thoroughly regenerated before 
things could be mended ; and mankind has no 
desire to be regenerated, its sole idea being that 
of mutual recrimination and abuse, and he found 
no satisfaction in either. Instead of proclaim- 


ONE OF US. 


109 


ing sonorous theories, he eased his heavy heart 
by countless deeds of benevolence. The exhibi- 
tion of Sempaly’s undecided, time-serving nat- 
ure to-day had thoroughly disgusted him. 

“How can a man,” he meditated, “be at 
once so much in love and yet be such a coward ? 
By heavens ! he is the greatest egotist I ever 
came across. A thorough, deep-dyed epicurean, 
with only feeling enough for the enjoyment of 
his own sensations.” 


CHAPTER III. 

The bet pending between Zinka and Sempaly 
was not decided that afternoon. Sempaly did 
not go to the Palatine, but, at the last moment, 
sent a note of apology to Zinka. 

Although not caring to confess it to himself, 
Truyn’s words had made a great impression 
upon him. Struggle as he might against it, 
there remained but one thing for him now, to 
consider the situation in earnest. The idea of 
effecting an exchange, of breaking with all his 
beloved sauntering habits, was unbearable. He 
felt as though some one had roughly endeav- 


110 


ONE OF US. 


ored to rouse him from a state of delicious half- 
sleep filled with pleasant dreams, from which 
he had no desire to wake. Was .there really no 
alternative ? Certainly, Truyn had suggested 
one to him. He had it in his power, had he 
energy enough, to convert the pleasant, vague 
dream into a wonderful, living reality. His 
whole being thrilled with delirious joy as the 
thought alluringly presented itself. 

He was past the age in which a young man is 
ready to commit any folly, to believe in the con- 
version to moral ways of some celebrated 
music-hall singer, or to marry his sister’s 
governess, twelve years older than himself. If 
he looked seriously at the possibility of mar- 
riage with Zinka, it was because he knew his 
feeling for her to be no fleeting passion, but 
that it had taken root in his innermost being. 
All the pleasures of life had been his to enjoy, 
and he was sated with them. What sufficed 
the other young men of his surrounding, to 
afford them the desired quantum of excitement 
necessary to give every man an interest in life, 
merely disgusted his more refined nature. For 
years life had been stale, unprofitable to him; 
then he had suddenly come in contact with 
Zinka — 

And now he felt as though the sweet spirit of 
spring had breathed through his cold, empty 


ONE OF US. 


Ill 



soul, charming* sweet flowers into blossom and 
making* mad, delicious disorder there. Once 
more he felt the “ sweet pain of existence.” And 
was he now to condemn all that sweet blossom- 
ing to untimely death ? 

“ Break off all intercourse with her — leave 
Rome. No, a thousand times no ! I cannot 
and will not do it ! ” he angrily muttered, al- 
ways coming back to the same thing. “ What 
the devil does it matter to Truyn ? Who is he, 
that he should have the right to order me what 
to do, or what not to do? ” he stormed. And 
yet the resolve to let things slide, to bask, fancy 
free, in Zinka’s smiles, and exult in her beauty 
and unconscious preference, as formerly, now 
seemed tinged with a feeling of discomfort. He 
felt that it had become impossible. His heart, 
hitherto dumb, had learned to speak and to ex- 
act. To attempt to still it by any such hollow 
make-believe was like trying to quench an in- 
satiable thirst with the dew-drops on a rose. 

He suddenly loved her — passionately, madly. 
He had ever tired so quickly of so-called 
interesting women : for the most part like rain- 
troubled streams whose shallowness was not, 
at first, apparent, because in the storms of 
life they had lost their purity and clearness. 
But Zinka resembled a mountain lake, whose 
waters are so clear that from its shores every 


112 


ONE OF US. 


little stone in its depths can be counted ; ever 
less transparent the further one goes, its deep, 
mysterious depths, still clear, but unfathom- 
able ; until, finally, despite their crystal purity, 
their depths can no more be seen than that of 
the blue sky above us. He felt as though that 
lake, at its deepest, contained a treasure which 
one man only, favored of Heaven, was destined 
to obtain. 

How alluring to dive into that lake ! She 
seemed made for him : never had he experienced 
a dull moment with her ; heart and head alike 
were satisfied. All the many contradictory 
phases of her character fascinated him. He 
had once told her she was “ a pocket edition of 
womanhood,” so many and varied were her at- 
tributes. The unexpected expression of some 
deep thought in the midst of a burst of child- 
like frolic, her periods of wild audach^, followed 
by dreamy melancholy, her little capricious 
egotisms and spirit of great devoted self-sacri- 
fice, the spontaneous grace of her every move- 
ment, her soft melting voice — 

Should he, really ? No. Impossible. Truyn 
was right : he must leave Rome. The sooner 
the better. Taking up his hat he went to 
Palazzo Chigi to see the embassador and ar- 
range for an exchange. His Excellency was 
out. 


ONE OF US. 


113 


Dispirited, he turned into the club, lost sev- 
eral games of ecarte and grew still more de- 
jected. Going home he kept consulting his 
watch, as if in expectation of something ; his 
agitation increased from minute to minute. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Vieni Maggio, Vieni prunavera Roman Stornello. 


Come month of May, come Spring’s sweet time! 
When trees burst forth in tender leaf, 

When, love, to thee, my heart I gave 
And thou didst vow to guard it well. 

Plunge in that heart thy dagger cold ; 

I will not flinch from thy dear hand ; 

And what thou seekst thou’ It surely find— 

A heart all thine, and thine alone. 


These simple words in Roman dialect, set to 
a most pathetic melody, were wafted from the 

open windows of Palazetto M , as Sempaly 

passed by that evening. 

In order to . divert his thoughts he had de- 
cided to pay some calls. He had no reason to 
go through the quiet side street in which the 
palazetto was situated ; but he could not resist 
going out of his way to do so. The night was 


114 


ONE OF US. 


warm. Tenderly, softly the tones were wafted 
to him. He recognized Zinka’s voice, and in 
the song one of those melancholy stornelli in 
which the peasants of the Campagna pour out 
their griefs. The song ceased. He was going 
on his way when another still sweeter, even 
more touching, broke the dreamy silence: 

“ Wouldst see me die ? Ah, painless death, 

The poison thy dear hand doth give ! 

My sepulcher within the shrine 
Of thy dear heart, beloved, shall be.’' 

The tender words were sung in a voice vibrat- 
ing with somber pathos, like a spray of lovely 
fading spring flowers borne away upon the 
depths of some dark, melancholy river. He 
turned back, listening with strained attention, 
feeling as if he would give all he possessed to 
hear it once more — if but the last line. 

“La sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno ! ” 

Then he heard Zinka’s voice talking to some 
one, and felt irritated that he could not dis- 
tinguish what she was saying. Ah ! why tort- 
ure himself thus beneath her windows ? 

To his immense astonishment, Sterzl came 
forward to meet him as he entered the drawing- 
room. 

“ What, back already ? ” he cried, as, after 


ONE OF US. 


115 


greeting* Zinka, he affectionately shook hands 
with him. 

“ Yes. Arnsberg could only stay a couple of 
days at Naples/’ replied Sterzl. “I was de- 
lighted to see him, but — well, I must be getting 
into the sere and yellow leaf or I should not feel 
so glad to be home again,” and, drawing his 
young sister to him, he gently stroked her 
pretty, fair head. This expression of brotherly 
affection tended still further to increase Sem- 
paty’s agitation. 

“ I am not surprised that your home should 
be so dear to you,” he murmured, as the baron- 
ess came in, an opera cloak on her shoulder, a 
scent-bottle and delicate handkerchief in her 
hand, and, as usual, at the last gasp of exces- 
sive elegance. 

“Not readj r yet, Zenaide ? Ab ! you here, 
dear count ? Voilci qui est gentil ! ” giving him 
the tips of her gloved fingers. “We were so 
uneasy about you. You gave up the proposed 
walk so suddenly that Zinka was quite in alarm 
lest you had caught Roman fever,” she said, in 
her mincing manner. 

“ Zinka rejoices in distressingly lively powers 
of imagination,” interposed Sterzl, smilingly. 

/ “I quite thought there must be some grave 
reason for your change of plan,” said Zinka, 
hurriedly, and with some embarrassment. 


116 


ONE OF US. 


Sempaly looked lier full in the face. “ I had 
but imposed a Lenten penance upon myself/’ he 
said, in a low voice. 

“To complete your penance, then, you should 
come with us now to Lady Dalrymple’s,” said 
the baroness, with insinuating- smile. 

“ Oh, anything- but that ! Grant me dispen- 
sation. I had been so looking- forward to a 
quiet evening,” cried Sempaly. 

“ And I, too, am weary to death of soirees 
and routs,” said Zinka. “ They are like so 
many society parades, in which regiments of 
fashionables are condemned to pass in review 
before their weary hostess.” 

“Let us have a holiday to-night, mother,” 
said Sterzl. “ Remember, it is Ash Wednes- 
day, and we are Catholics ! ” 

“I had my doubts; but the Duchess of 
Otranto said she was going,” lisped the baron- 
ess. 

However, upon Sempaly assuring her with 
great gravity that the Duchess of Otranto was 
not looked upon as a leader of fashion in Roman 
society, she decided to yield to the general wish 
and stay at home, and retired, saying that she 
would write some letters before tea. 


ONE OF US. 


117 


CHAPTER V. 

Most men have their feelings lodged in their 
heads, while it is well known that women’s feel- 
ings are in every nerve of their bodies. Count 
Sempaly, in this respect, had a feminine organ- 
ization. He had nerves even to the tips oFtris 
fingers, and as a gifted Frenchman has ex- 
pressed it in untranslatable fashion, “ il avait 
les sens poete ! ” Consequently, the most trivial 
things of the outside world had power to excite 
in him pleasurable or unpleasurable feelings. 
The merest detail of an uncongenial nature 
would be sufficient to spoil his enjoyment of a 
thing, however sublime and elevated it might 
be. He could not have recognized the beauties 
of Faust had he come across that masterpiece in 
the dog’s-eared volume of a circulating library. 

But the baroness having retired, there was 
nothing to mar his enjoyment of Zinka’s so- 
ciety. Sterzl had resumed his newspaper, and 
Zinka, at Sempaly ’s desire, went back to the 
piano. As usual, she played her accompani- 
ments without notes, her head slightly bent 
over the keys, her eyes half closed in dreamy 
abstraction. The somewhat somber tints of the 


118 


ONE OF US. 


room, with its Gobelin hanging's, its pretty con- 
fusion of ornaments, broad-leaved plants, Japa- 
nese lacquer-work, and luxurious furniture of 
all shapes and sizes, formed a harmonious back- 
ground to her white-clad rococo figure. 

The light of the one lamp in the room diffused 
a mysterious glow through its rose-lined shade ; 
a kind of melodiously tinted mezza voce reigned 
around. The scent of violets, roses and stocks 
pervaded the atmosphere, and the tender melan- 
choly of the odor of flowers blended with the 
tender melancholy of the yearning, pathetic 
love-songs. Sempaly’s whole being thrilled in 
a pleasurable excitement, unknown to most 
men. 

Zinka sang one after another of the lovely 
stornelli , at his entreaty — her voice becoming 
ever richer and softer. 

Do not sing too much, Zini, you will tire 
yourself, ” admonished Sterzl. 

“ Only one more/’ implored Sempaly, “the 
song I heard you singing before I came up,” 
and she sang : 

“ ‘La sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno.’ ” 

The words quivered from her lips ; her hands 
glided off the keys. Then Sempaly seized those 
soft, warm little hands in his— a delightful dizzi- 
ness, a boundless joy came over him at the 


OJSE OF US. 


119 


contact — “ Zinka ! Are you feeling 1 anything 1 
of what you have been singing to-night ? ” 

. Her eyes met his. Hers lowered slightly, as 
©ne winces from too strong a light, and she 
sltrank hack a little as one shrinks back from 
too great a bliss. The answer still hung upon 
her lips, when the door opening, the Italian serv- 
ant announced some unintelligible name, and, 
accompanied by her daughter and the latter’s * 
Polish admirer, entered Baroness Wolnitzska. 

“ Ah ! ah ! how glad I am to find you at home, 
my dears,” she cried. “ We calculated upon 
your not going out on Ash Wednesday. How 
are you, Zinka ? ” 

Zinka was petrified. At the sound of her 
sister’s loud, rough voice. Mamma Sterzl had 
come in from the adjoining room. 

“ Why, Charlotte ! ” she stammered, “Char- 
lotte ! You here ! ” 

“Ah ! isn’t it a surprise, Clotilde? Yes, we 
often get taken unawares ! We arrived at three 
to-day, and, not finding you at home the first 
time we called, decided to come round again 
this evening. It’s late, isn’t it ? For my part, 

I should have come long before, but Slava per- 
sisted that we must dress. Such nonsense, for 
near relations ! But I don’t like to contradict 
her, she so soon turns off cross ; so, you see, I 
just dressed a bit.” 


120 


ONE OF US. 


Hereupon the baroness, after having* given a 
resounding kiss to her sister and niece, bumped 
heavily down upon a little easy-chair, all too 
small for her capacious person. 

There is no doubt about her toilet. Upon 
her cropped gray hair is perched a black lace 
erection, the ends of which hang down coquet- 
tishly on either side. Her portly person is com- 
pressed within a violet satin gown which evi- 
dently has grown too tight for her, and the 
shabbiness of which she has endeavored to hide 
by a lace scarf picturesquely draped about her 
shoulders. 

Her dove-colored gloves are very short and 
very tight, and are burst out at all the button- 
holes. 

Slava sports some kind of tri-colored costume 
and some old-fashioned jewelry which she has 
picked up at a curiosity shop in Verona. Her 
hair is dressed a V antique, and she carries her 
head inclined toward the left shoulder to still 
further carry out her resemblance to the Apollo. 
Her features are set in the inane smile of one 
about to be photographed . 

Vladimir Matuschowsky’s spare, conspira- 
tor’s form is clad in a braided coat. He carries a 
low-crowned, tasseled hat in one hand and looks 
upon the dress coats of the other men as a per- 
sonal insult. 


“ Monsieur Vladimir de Matuschowsky,” says 
Baroness Wolnitzska, introducing* him, “a — a— 
tin ami de la famille” When the baroness is in 
perplexity she always resorts to French. 

In Baroness Sterzl, who has now fully recov- 
ered from her first feeling of dismay, the desire 
to make an appearance before her sister again 
asserts itself. 

“ Count Sempaly,” she exclaims, as she intro- 
duces the attache, “ a friend of our family — 
my sister. Baroness Wolnitzska. You have 
doubtless heard of the great leader of the Sclav 
party, Wolnitzskj^, my dear Sempaly, who cre- 
ated such a sensation in the year 1840.” 

Sempaly returned a silent bow. Baroness 
Wolnitzska, rising from her chair, stretches 
out her hand politely to him. 

“ Delighted to make your acquaintance, my 
lord. I have already heard of you. My sister, 
Clotilde, has mentioned you in almost every 
letter. I am quite* courant /” 

Once more Sempaly bows silently; then, re- 
tiring somewhat into the background, while 
Slava now joins in conversation with the lady 
of the house, he murmurs in a low voice to 
Sterzl : 

“ I will slip away, my dear fellow. In these 
family meetings a stranger is always in the 


122 


ONE OF ;US. 


way.” His manner has suddenly grown very 
stiff ; his tone unpleasantly haughty. 

Sterzl nods. 

“ All right,” he says. 

The lady of the house, however, seeing his 
intention, interposes : 

“No, no, my dear Sempaly, you certainly 
must not run away. You do not disturb us in 
the slightest degree ; and you really must not 
look upon yourself as a stranger among us.” 

“ It would seem as if we had frightened you 
away, and that I really cannot allow,” puts in 
the Wolnitzska, roguishly. 

And Sempaly remains — perhaps solely con- 
strained by that impulse which sometimes 
seizes us to drain a bitter draught to the very 
dregs. 

“Pull yourself together a little, Zini,” whis- 
pers Sterzl to his sister, admonishinglv. “ The 
interruption is highly disagreeable ; but you 
should not let your vexatioji be so apparent ! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 


Tea has been brought in. Sterzl devotes 
himself with commendable heroism to his 
cousin Slava, in order to leave as much freedom 
as possible to his spoiled sister. Slava replies 
condescendingly, but glances over her large 
Japanese fan at Sempaly opposite, who, laconic 
and ill-tempered, sits beside Zinka on a small 
couch, assisting her to make tea. Baroness 
Wolnitzska drinks cup after cup, consumes 
nearty all the cake, and talks incessantly. 
Vladimir von Matuschowsky looks down gloom- 
ily, consistently rejects all refreshment, and 
does not speak a word. His arms crossed over 
his breast, his head thrown back, he sits looking 
the picture of manly dignity upon the defensive. 

“ I declare I am quite hungry/’ confesses 
Mme. Wolnitzska ; “ and yet we are staying 
at a very good hotel — Hotel della Stella, 
in the Via della Pace ; an Austrian baron, 
whom we met on the journey, recommended it 
to us. It is not exactly one of the first-rate 
hotels, but only the upper classes go there. 
We have a Russian princess dining at table 
d'hote with us, and a French marquise also ; 


124 


ONE OF US. 


she certainly, I must confess, strikes me as a 
little odd. I should say she was running 
away with a lover from her husband, or her 
creditors. 5 ’ 

With due regard to the proprieties, the 
baroness has uttered this startling supposition 
behind her open hand, thus shielding the sound 
of her voice from Zinka and Sempaly. 

“ They gave us a good dinner, very good in- 
deed , 55 she adds. “We pay six francs a day 
for our board . 55 

“Seven , 55 interrupts Slava, angrily. 

“ Six, Slava ! 55 

“ Seven, mamma ! 55 

And now ensues an interesting and uncom- 
monly animated discussion between mother and 
daughter as to whether the charges of Hotel 
della Stella are six or seven francs a day. 
Slava remains in possession of the field. 

“ And with lights and attendance it costs 
eight , 55 she sums up, triumphantly. 

“I let her talk , 55 says the Wolnitzska, again 
spreading out her hand before her mouth. “ She 
i such an odd girl in that respect. Everything 
that is cheap she thinks must be common. But 
what was I saying ? Ah, yes, that at table 
cl 5 hote There were flowers on the table. I could 
have eaten more , 55 and she reached out her 
hand for another piece of plum cake. 


ONE OF US. 


125 


Just then the door opened and Count Sieg- 
burg was announced. 

“ Good-evening, baroness,” he said, gayly. 
“ Seeing your windows so cheerfully lighted up 
as I passed, I could not resist coming up to see 
how Ash Wednesday was suiting you.” 

His eyes glanced over the three strangers. 
In a moment he had taken in the situation, but, 
far from taking it tragically, he grasped it in 
its comic aspect. Requesting an introduction 
to the ladies, he took up position whence he 
could watch the whole company, Sempaly in- 
cluded, while enjoying the conversational pow- 
ers of Mme. and Mile. Wolnitzska. 

Turning to the latter, he observed : 

“The name of Wolnitzsky is celebrated.” 

“Yes, my father played an important part in 
1848,” said Slava. c 

“ Siegburg — Siegburg,” murmured Mme. 
Wolnitzska to her sister — “which Siegburg ? 
The Budower or Waldauer Siegburgs or the 
Merschenitzer ? ” 

“The Waldauer Siegburgs— mother was a 
Princess Hag,” lisped Baroness Sterzl, leaning 
back in her corner of the sofa. 

“Ah, the Waldauer Siegburgs — they are the 
best Siegburgs,” said the Wolnitzska, aston- 
ished. 

“Of course!” returned the baroness, with 


126 


ONE OF US. 

admirable nonchalance, as though never accus- 
tomed to associate with any but “ the best 
Siegburgs.” 

Mme. Wolnitzska set her broad face into the 
most amiable leer, and smiled across at the 
young count, like one waiting her turn to put 
in a word. For the present, however, she was 
prevented, and by no less a person than her sis- 
ter Clotilde, who asked, not altogether amia- 
bly, what had possessed her to make this jour- 
ney to Rome ? 

“ Can you ask ? ” exclaimed the Wolnitzska. 
“ I had long wanted to see Rome, and after 
3^our pressing letters, Clotilde — besides,” and 
now came the story of her Bernini — “you re- 
member our Bernini, Clotilde ? ” 

The baroness nodded. 

o “ I must tell you I had a copy of the Belve- 
dere Apollo ; that is, only of the head, by Berni- 
ni,” she said, turning to Count Siegburg, whose 
attention, she saw, was beginning to be at- 
tracted. “ For generations past that work of 
art had been in our family — ” 

“ For centuries,” amended Baroness SterzJ. 

“ I must confess, I felt it very hard to part 
with it,” continued the Wolnitzska. “ Still, I 
resolved upon the step when Tulpe, the cele- 
brated dealer from Vienna, came to me and 
bought it.” 


ONE OF US. 


127 


Sterzl, to whom the wanderings of the Classic 
God were not unknown, here made some allu- 
sion to the fact in his dry way. 

Upon which the Wolnitzska, edging ever 
nearer to Siegburg, continued: “You know, 
my lord, how it is with girls. For years one 
may be taking them to balls, dragging them 
about with one from one seaside place to an- 
other, and never a suitor ; one stays quietly at 
home with them, and, all in a trice, comes a 
lover when least hoped for. I must say it was 
hard for me to part from that bust ! ” 

“ The parting must have been heart-rend- 
ing/ ’ said Siegburg, feelingly. 

“ Heart-rending ! ” echoed the Wolnitzska ; 
“doubly heart-rending, because — ” (she whis- 
pered in a low, confidential voice almost in 
Siegburg’s ear) — “because — my husband al- 
ways declares that it was through my mania 
for our Bernini that Slava is so like the Belve- 
dere Apollo. Has not the resemblance struck 
you ? ” 

“ I was struck by it the very moment I en- 
tered the room,” exclaimed Siegburg without 
hesitation. 

“ So everybody says. Dear, dear, you can 
think what a sacrifice it was. It cuts me to 
the heart only to think of it. Oh, these feel- 
ings ! Excuse me if I take off my cap,” and 


128 


ONE OF US. 


she energetically tore off the black lace erection 
from her head, and running- her hand through 
her scant, cropped hair, cried : “Good heavens ! 
we poor women have a bad time of it, hemmed 
in, confined, we may not even go with our heads 
uncovered ! ” .j 

“ Yes, woman's fate is very sad,” acquiesced 
Siegburg, sympathetically. 

“You are a true original,” exclaimed Mamma 
Sterzl, giggling in a somewhat embarrassed 
manner. It is well known that society has a 
habit of classing all those unmannerly relatives 
whom it would gladly see consigned to a lunatic 
asylum as such. “ A true original. Are you 
meaning now to break a lance in favor of 
Woman's Rights ? ” 

“Not again, my dear Clotilde, not again,” 
replied the Wolnitzska. “Ever since experi- 
ence has taught me that every woman is ready 
to lay down her rights the moment matrimony 
presents itself to her I have lost interest in 
emancipation.” 

“ Woman's Rights is well known only to in- 
terest the unmarried portion of the sex,” threw 
in Sterzl, who had recently been reading an 
article on this much-vexed subject. 

“ And as statistics prove that there are more 
women than men in the world,” said the 


ONE OF US. 


129 


Wolnitzska, “l propose a legal polygamy as 
the best solution of the Woman’s Question.” 

“Maman, vous etes d’une inconvenance ! ” 
cried Slava, furiously, with sparkling eyes. 

“You have such narrow views,” retorted 
her mother. “Had I mentioned the subject in 
a frivolous tone, I could have understood your 
violence ; but I look upon it from a philosophic 
point of view — you will understand me, count?” 

“Perfectly, madame,” returned Siegburg with 
dignified gravitj^. “You consider the subject 
in the light of national economy, and national 
econom3 r recognizes no inconvenance .” 

Sempaly pulled his mustache; Zinka changed 
color ; the lady of the house, clapping her sister 
on the shoulder, gave a shrill forced laugh, as 
she cried: “ Oh, you are an original ! ” 

Sterzl, remarking that Siegburg took great 
interest in the old woman’s foolish chatter, and 
was about to lay a new trap for her eccentric 
spirit, now happily remembered that Slava’s 
singing was the only means of reducing her 
mother to silence, so asked his cousin to sing 
them one of her national songs. Siegburg hav- 
ing joined his entreaties to Sterzl’s, Slava, after 
protesting that the pitch of the piano was too 
low, the acoustics of the room bad, etc., etc., 
finally consented to sing them some patriotic 
songs, Matuschowskv playing the accompani- 


130 


ONE OF US. 


ments. Her tall, Valkyre-like figure trembled 
with romantic excitement, and, acting* up to the 
traditions of Vart fremissant, as she sang 1 she 
tore to pieces the music she held in her hand, 
not that it was the particular song she was 
singing, but that it added to the general ar- 
tistic effect. Baroness Wolnitzska listened still 
as a mouse, shedding tears of delight the while. 
Like so many another mother only conscious of 
the defects in her daughter which affected her- 
self, she had a profound admiration for her 
in all else. After Slava had exhausted her 
repertory to the last verse of the last revolu- 
tionary song, forbidden since 1848, and even 
Sterzl had asked himself which was the greater 
infliction, his aunt’s twaddle or her daughter’s 
singing, Vladimir von Matuschowsky, whose 
ill-temper, thanks to the faint applause award- 
ed to his and Slava’s musical efforts, had 
reached the culminating point, observed that 
it was growing late, and the ladies, after the 
fatigues of their journey, must be needing rest. 

Hereupon Mme. Wolnitzska, hastily swallow- 
ing the last remaining piece of cake, stroked 
the crumbs leisurely from her violet satin gown 
on to the carpet, and, rising, began with many a 
bow and polite speech to make her way slowly 
to the door. It took half an hour for her to 
effect an exit. His relatives having finally 


ONE OF US. 


131 


taken their departure and the two friends, who 
had meanwhile made their farewells to the 
ladies, being 1 still in the vestibule, Sterzl said 
good-humoredly to Siegburg : 

“ I think you were the only one of the party 
who managed to get some amusement out of it 
to-night. ” 

Siegburg’s face crimsoned ; then, looking up 
frankly to Sterzl, he said : 

“ Are you vexed with me ? ” 

“ Perhaps— a little,” returned Sterzl, smiling. 
“ Although I must confess the temptation was 
great.” 

“ I really am awfully sorry for you, Sterzl,” 
said Siegburg, kindly ; and, with the warm- 
hearted tact that alwa} r s won him friends, 
went on to say : “ There’s nothing so disagree- 
able in the whole world as a sudden incursion 
of ineligible relations. I know that from dire 
experience. In Vienna last spring my mother 
had a perfect shower of old aunts coming direct 
upon her from the Bukowina.” 

Sempaly meanwhile, busying himself getting 
into his otter-lined fur coat, maintained a sulky 
silence. 


132 


ONE OF US. 


CHAPTER VII. 

It is three days since Count Truyn had so 
categorically challenged his cousin to come to 
a decision, and since the sudden appearance of 
grotesque Baroness Wolnitzska had frightened 
the sweet specter from his soul, checking the 
declaration of love hovering upon his very lips ; 
and Sempaly had still not taken any steps to 
he transferred. Everywhere in the course of 
those three days had Truyn’s eyes followed him, 
ever fixed upon him with earnest questioning, 
as though to say : “ Have you made your de- 
cision ?” No, he had made no decision. To 
a man constituted like Sempaly nothing is so 
difficult. In a case like his, Fate may decide a 
matter, he never ! 

The apparition of the ridiculous Baroness 
Wolnitzska might indeed avail to press back the 
declaration hovering upon his lips, but forever 
to chase Zinka’s image from his heart it could 
not ! The foolish old woman’s foolish sayings 
he had forgotten ; the stornello Zinka had sung 
to him that evening was ever ringing in his 
ears. For two days, by the exercise of great 
self-restraint, he had avoided the palazetto ; 


ONE OF US. 


133 


but yesterday he had chanced to see her only 
for one moment in the Corso. She was sitting’ 
by Marie Yulpini. She wore a gray velvet dress 
with a large, broad-brimmed hat throwing a 
soft shadow over her forehead and upon her 
golden hair. She had a large bouquet on her 
lap, and was chatting pleasantly with Gabrielle 
Truyn and the little Vulpinis. What an affec- 
tionate, merry way she had wi th children ! The 
blood rushed madly to his veins as her eyes met 
his and she returned his salutation, blushing 
slightly as she did so. 

It was the first time she had blushed on 
meeting him. 

That night he dreamed the most impossible 
things. And now this morning he was walking 
in the sun-scorched solitude of the deserted Pin- 
cio, angrily breaking off little twigs from the 
bushes and brooding. More and more did the 
possession of Zinka present itself as the sine qua 
non of existence. He had never yet refused him- 
self what he had coveted, and now — 

A bright March sun was shining down upon 
the Piazza di Spagna, the waters of the Bar- 
caccia were glistening in a bluish sheen, the 
church towers of the Trinita dei Monti stood 
out sharply defined against the blue sky. 
Models in conventional Italian costume, blind 


134 


ONE OF US. 


beggars, muttering half aloud the incessant 
prayer, are thronging the shallow steps of 
the Piazza. 

In front of the Hotel de PEurope cab-drivers 
sleep comfortably under their enormous, much- 
mended umbrellas, which, like market women, 
they have fastened to their driving seats, us- 
ing them alike as protection against sun and 
rain. Flower-sellers crouch in every doorway, 
some with a white fox-terrier sitting by their 
side, his nose in the air. The square swarms 
with tourists, the eyes of the Beatrice Cenci — 
the saddest eyes in the world — look down from 
the window of a photograph shop upon the com- 
monplace, every-day life going on beneath. 

Unconcerned and unsuspectingly Count Sieg- 
burg turns out of Law’s Money Exchange 
Office, breathing in with content the hyacinth- 
scented air as he glances approvingly after the 
well-made figure of a young English girl just 
then passing in tight-fitting jersey. Absorbed 
in his observation, he starts on hearing himself 
addressed by a rough voice : 

“ Good-morning, my lord, quelle chance /” 
Turning, he recognizes in the broad, crimson 
face before him, shaded by an enormous bell- 
shaped hat, the Baroness Wolnitzska. 

Despite the sunshine, she was wearing that 
most unbecoming of all ladies’ apparel, which, 


ONE OF US. 


135 


originally intended as a protection from rain, 
has later degenerated into a covering for many 
a shabby toilet, and has hence come to be 
known in Paris as a cache-misere / and, more- 
over, despite the dryness of the pavement, she 
was holding up the said cache-misere and the 
dress it concealed with both hands, thereby 
bringing her enormous feet, cased in worn elas- 
tic boots, very much in evidence. 

“ Ah, baroness ! ” raising his hat, “ I really 
did not — ” 

“ Yes. You did not recognize me,” responded 
the baroness, imperturbably, “ so I spake first. 
Quelle chance. You belong to the embassy, 
too P ” 

“ Really — ” 

“That’s just what I wanted. I am going to 
ask a favor of you, count. My daughter is 
anxious to obtain an audience with His Holi- 
ness. You must know Slava is a rigid Cath- 
olic. Between ourselves, I look upon it merely 
as a matter of fashion. My opinions are philo- 
sophical in religious matters. Still it would 
interest me to see* the Pope — ” 

“ The Pope, unfortunately, is much less ac- 
cessible now than formerly,” said Siegburg. 
“Not belonging to the Papal Embassy myself, 
I regret that I shall be unable to assist you in 
the matter.” 


136 


ONE OF US. 


“ Just what my nephew says. It is unlucky, 
terribly unlucky ! " 

At that moment Slava appeared from Piale’s 
library, wearing a shabby-looking Directoire 
costume, with broad-brimmed hat and feath- 
ers, and a pair of not too clean gloves, reaching 
above the elbows. 

“ Ah, bon jour ," she cried, affably offering 
her finger-tips to the young count. Matuschow- 
sky, who accompanied her, surlily lifted his hat. 
Surrounded, as he now is, on all sides, Sieg- 
burg begins to find the situation somewhat un- 
pleasant. 

“ It is always such a pleasure to meet one's 
countrymen in a foreign land," says Slava. 

“Uncommonly," answers Siegburg, and 
thinks to himself — 

“ Forth from this shady vale . . 

Then suddenly his merry eyes light up with 
their customary spirit of mischief, as he hears 
the Wolnitzska exclaim once more : “ Good- 
morning, my lord, quelle chance / " and sees her 
bear down upon none other than Sempaty, who 
just then, dejectedly and by the world forgot, 
was descending the sun-scorched steps of the 
Piazzi di Spagna into the square. 

“Excuse me," he muttered, as he too started, 
“ I really did not recognize you." His eyes 


ONE OF US. 


137 


sought the distance, as is the case with people 
who suddenly find themselves in an embarrass- 
ing situation. 

Unabashed, the Wolnitzska continued, volu- 
bly : “I cannot tell you how delighted I am, to 
have met you, count. I want to ask a favor of 
you. Can you not manage to procure us ad- 
mission to the Farnesina ? They say that the 
Duca di Ripalda is very difficult — ” 

“I am sorry it is quite impossible for me.” 

Here a group of strangers riveted Sempaly’s 
attention — two young ladies, accompanied by 
Jheir maid. Both ladies, tall and slender as 
two young fir trees and strikingly lovely, clad 
in English tailor-made costumes, were in eager 
debate with an Italian vender of embroideries, 
appearing to take the greatest pleasure in mak- 
ing their purchases in the open street. 

“ Two charming-looking girls. I seem to 
know their faces,” said Mme. Wolnitzska. “Are 
they not the Jatinskys ? ” 

Now the two pretty girls look up. “Nicki, 
Nicki,”they cry merrily, half across the square, 
with the unconcern of people brought up in the 
belief that the world is made for them alone. 

“Pray excuse me, madame,” murmurs Sem- 
paly. “ My cousins — ” Hereupon he leaves 
her, to hurry across to the two young ladies. 


138 


ONE OF Ub. 


f *' When did you arrive ? Where are you 
staying* ? ” 

“ This morning — Hotel de Londres. Mamma 
has just written you a note to the embassy. 
Ah, another Austrian ! ” as Siegburg comes 
up. “ Rome is a refuge for Vienna folk. Do 
tell me, who was that old fortune-teller and 
her enterprising daughter who seized upon you 
two so eagerly ? ” 

Meanwhile the Wolnitzskas — mamma beam- 
ing, Slava haughty as the Belvedere Apollo in- 
corporate — pass them by in the Via Condotti. 
Suddenly the Wolnitzska comes to a dead stop. 

“1 quite forgot to beg Count Sempaly to 
procure me tickets for the opening of the Inter- 
national A.rt Exhibition ! ” she cries, striking 
her brow, and turns back with the expressed 
intention of making good her omission, and only 
the determined opposition of Vladimir von 
Matuschowsky avails to preserve Sempaly 
from a renewed onslaught. 


CHAPTER Yin. 


It is on the Pincio, between five and six, that 
the band plays daily, and the great world of 
Rome assembles to see the sun go down behind 
St. Peter’s. 

The reflection of the rosy sunset rests golden 
upon the sandy soil, shines brilliantly upon the 
brass instruments of the musicians and their 
military accoutrements, lending a metallic sheen 
to the waters of the great fountain behind the 
band stand. Long, black shadows stretch 
across the grass.; marvelously bright are the 
hues of the palms, yucca trees and evergreen 
oaks, as they stand out against the sky, whose 
rosy glow is now beginning to fade into the 
paler tints of evening. 

The green glades of the Pincio are deserted 
by the fashionable world ; four species of hu- 
manity alone are to be encountered there — 
governesses, nurses, children and priests. All 
varieties of priests are there represented, from 
distinguished Mon Signori with their delicately 
cut features, military bearing and white hands ; 
monks, with their bearded faces and bald heads 
showing from under their brown hoods ; two 


140 


ONE OF US. 


whole battalions of seminarists, clad in every 
possible hue, thin and overgrown, with imma- 
ture, unhealthy-looking complexions. 

Only separated from these by a leafy screen 
is the world of fashion. The Roman aristocracy 
in their brilliant equipages, and the foreigners 
in more or less elegant carriages from livery 
stables, among which an occasional one or two- 
horsed cab from the ranks, has managed to 
slip in. Denser and denser are the lines of car- 
riages, ever wider rolls the stream of Roman 
fashion out from the gardens of the Borghese, 
along the Piazza del Popolo to the Pincian Hill. 

Upon the plateau the carriages draw up. Gen- 
tlemen crowd round with pretty speeches ; 
ladies, in their carriages, call merrily one to 
another the society talk, unintelligible to all 
but the initiated. 

From the hanging gardens leading from the 
Pincio to the Via Margutta arise the sweet 
scents of blossoming spring. Rome lies far 
below. Crowning its confused mass of houses 
and ruins, rigid, solemn, stupendous, lighted up 
oy the distant rays of the setting sun, stands 
out St. Peter’s upon the very verge of the 
horizon. 

Countess Ilsenbergh’s spacious landau is 
drawn up beside that of the Princess Vulpini. 
The Jatinskys have divided their favors. 


ONE OF US. 


141 


On Countess Usenbergh’s left reclines the 
Countess Jatinsky, smiling and indolent. 
Princess Vulpini chaperons the two young 
countesses. Upon the hack seat, beside his 
cousin Eugenie — known as Nini in the family 
circle — is Sempaly. Siegburg, leaning on the 
carriage door, is talking his merry nonsense. 
Every anecdote of Roman society, fit for young 
ladies’ ears, he retails. They reply with gay mu- 
sical laughter, finally infecting Sempaly with 
their childish gayety, who, laconic and absent, 
had taken the seat beside Nini, a position 
which makes him the envy of all the men 
to-day. 

Suddenly there is a general stir. Every one 
looks in one direction. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asks Polyxena Jatin- 
sky, leaning slightly forward. 

“It must be Doria’s new drag; or the King,” 
answers Princess Vulpini, blinking out of her 
short-sighted eyes. 

“No,” replies Siegburg. “Neither one nor 
the other. It is the Baroness Wolnitzska !” 

In Frau Sterzl’s well-appointed landau, placed 
by her at their disposal for the afternoon, are 
seated the two Wolnitzskas — mother and daugh- 
ter. They are wearing their most fetching 
costumes. The daughter reclines elegantly, 
the mother stands up the greater part of the 


142 


ONE OP US. 


time, scrutinizing the Roman world of fashion 
through an opera-glass. Only from time to 
time, either to repose herself, or because unable 
longer to maintain her equilibrium, does she 
sit down, when she occupies herself with a close 
examination of every detail of her borrowed 
splendor. Not a tassel escapes her, as she 
pats and presses the luxurious cushions. Her 
extraordinary behavior, combined with the 
bizarre appearance oj mother and daughter, is 
the principal reason of the sensation caused 
by the Sterzl’s landau on the Pincio, and which 
they naturally consider to be solely caused by 
Slava’s striking resemblance to the Belvedere 
Apollo. 

“ The Wolnitzska ! that stupid old woman we 
saw you with yesterday on the Piazza di 
Spagna ! ” exclaims Polyxena. 

“Yes.” 

“ Only fancy, Nicki,” to Sempaly, “mamma 
actually knows her.” 

“Who are you talking of, children?” asks 
Countess Jatinsky from the Ilsenbergh car- 
riage. 

“Of the Wolnitzska, mamma ; do you see 
her ? ” 

“Heaven preserve me!” cried Countess 
Jatinsky, fervently. “One’s life is not safe 


ONE OF US. 


143 


with the woman. She laid siege to me at Villa 
Wolkonsky this morning-. ” 

“ How ever do you come to know the old per- 
son, aunt ? ” asked Sempaly, impatiently. 

“ Your uncle had some political relations at 
one time with her husband, ” replied the coun- 
tess. “She is insufferable. For a full half- 
hour did she tack herself on to me. 5 ’ 

“ Her communications must have been highly 
interesting, countess,” said Siegburg. 

“ They were anything but interesting to me,” 
returned the countess, in some annoyance. “ I 
was informed how much her journey had 'cost, 
how much her daily expenditure for hired car- 
riages amounts to, and that in her youth she 
had had singing lessons from Cicimara. But 
the principal theme of her discourse was her 
sister Sterzl, who seems to be living in style 
here, and only associates with the creme de la 
creme. You are laughing ? ” 

“You most allow, mamma, that the name 
Sterzl is irresistibly funny in connection with 
the creme de la creme / ” exclaimed Polyxena. 

“ I saw nothing funny in it ! ” replied Coun- 
tess Jat insky, pathetically.' “ By the way, one 
thing really interesting she told me, that her 
niece, Zenaide Sterzl — now, why are you 
laughing again ? ” 


144 


ONE OF US. 


“Zenaide Sterzl ! The name is a poem!” 
cried Countess Polyxena. 

“ Well, it appears from what that old person 
said that this fair Zenaide is about to exchange 
the unlovely name of Sterzl for one of the best 
names in Austria — so, at least, she told me. 
It is not to be made public yet, so she was not 
at liberty to divulge the bridegroom’s name; 
but Zenaide was as good as engaged to some 
young count — one of the attaches to the Aus- 
trian embassy. Who can it be ? You gentlemen 
ought to know.” 

“Oh, Count Siegburg, are ^ou the happy 
man ? ” asked Polyxena, turning to him. 

Siegburg shook his head, and stroking his fair 
mustache, with a malicious smile, glanced at 
Sempaly, who was in a state of unmistakable 
annoyance. 

“Or can it be you, Nicki ? ” continued 
Polyxena, mischievously. “ Allow me to con- 
gratulate you on your desirable relatives.” 
So perceptible an embarrassment now sud- 
denly seized upon the little circle that she 
stopped abruptly. 

“I know nothing about it,” said Sempaly, 
gloomily. “ The powers of imagination of 
that gossiping old woman are simply stu- 
pendous ! ” 

The sunlight upon the uniforms and brass 


ONE OF US. 


145 


instruments of the band grow redder and 
fainter ; the white glow upon the green leaves 
fades away. 

“ Gran Dio ! Morir si Giovane,” the band is 
playing. 

The sun has sunk ; lights and shadows alike 
have vanished ; the day is over ; night not yet 
come on. There is a dull glow behind St. Peter’s 
as of an almost extinguished fire. 

“We shall meet this evening at the Ellis’s,” 
say the ladies to Siegburg, as, bowing, he 
retires. 

The carriages roll down the Pincian Hill, 
past Villa Medici — down, down to the heart 
of Rome. Through the evening air resounds 
a great, irregular roar, like that of a river 
rushing to the sea. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mr. and Lady Julia Ellis — she bore her 
title by right as daughter of an English earl — 
enormously rich and highly connected, had for 
many years passed their winters in Italy, Lady 


146 


ONE OF US. 




Julia being unable to stand the severity of an 
English winter. In former years she had been 
renowned for her eccentricities ; now she was j 
a quiet, elderly woman, with white hair, fault- ■ 
lessly regular features and very stout arms. \ 
Like all English women, she loved to appear in j 
low-necked dresses on every possible occasion, , 
and had a special fancy for wearing pink-tipped 1 
feathers in her hair. 


Her spouse, Mr. Ellis, was younger than 


she, with a handsome, thoroughly English 
face, short whiskers, and a head of pictur- ; 
esquely waving white hair. His profile bore 
a resemblance to that of Felix Mendelssohn, 
of which he was immensely proud. He was j 
proud of two other things : of his wife, who 
had been admired by George IV.; and of an 
old umbrella, borrowed from him on one occa- } 
sion by Felix Mendelssohn. 

He played the concertina, and gave musical 
soirees every week. On the evening that the 
Jatinskys were to make their first appearance 
at Lady Julia’s, Tulpin, the Russian genius, 
who had composed the musical accompaniment i 
to the Ilsenbergh Tableaux, was to give a i 
sketch of his new opera, composed on a national ■ 
Russian air to a French libretto. Of course he 
belonged to those Russians who combine the 
wildest love of everything Slavonic with the 


ONE OF US. 


147 


pious wish of being* taken, wherever they may 
chance to be, for born Parisians. 

The grand piano groaned beneath his hands. 
Various g*ood old friends from “ Orpheus ” and 
“The Wedding* by Torchlight,” floated on 
a sea of sonorous tremolos. Every now and 
then lulpin would shout in explanatory fashion 
to the audience. “ The Czar speaks”; “the 
Bojar speaks”; “the peasant speaks”; or, 
“the rushing: of the wind in the Caucasus,” 
“the foaming* of the Terek.” 

Mr. Ellis, who was a firm believer in the 
opera, threw in a “ Magnificent — magnificent !” 
from time to time. “ You must positively work 
out the opera — it must not be left unfinished ! ” 

“ Work it out ! ” sighed Tulpin ironically. 
“ Work is not my province. We have ideas. 
We leave the working out to — hem — hem — to 
others. Would you believe it ? I cannot read 
a note of music — not a single note,” he repeated 
with an air of undescribable self-satisfaction. 
Hereupon he struck a couple of clumsy arpeg- 
gios, to which Mr. Ellis cried another “ aston- 
ishing,” and likened him to Mendelssohn, to 
Tulpin ? s disgust, who prided himself upon being 
one of the School of the Future. A prize student 
from Villa Medici who had been waiting a whole 
hour to perform his “ Arabian Symphony,” here 
murmured : 


148 


ONE OF US. 


“For Heaven’s sake! if we cannot be the 
pampered of the earth, at least leave us music 
for our consolation.” 

At length, Lady Julia, rising compassion- 
ately, invited her guests to the tea-room. Her 
invitation was unanimously welcomed, and the 
music-room was soon deserted. Only Frau 
Tulpin from affection, the prize student from 
indignation, and Mr. Ellis from a sense of duty 
were left standing by the grand piano. In the 
adjoining rooms the guests refreshed them- 
selves with tea and chit-chat; yet, even there 
their spirits did not rise. A feeling of depres- 
sion had broken out among them like an epi- 
demic, and the prevailing topic of conversation 
was the pleasantest mode of committing sui- 
cide. 

Tulpin banged on uninterruptedly. Sud- 
denly, even his energy relaxed, and he came 
to a dead stop. The Jatinskys had arrived. 
There was a general commotion. They were 
so interesting that even Tulpin left the piano 
to swell their court. 

They were all three smiling and amiable. 
One might even say they brought a cheering 
atmosphere with them. Countess Ilsenbergh 
who accompanied them, had fully initiated 
them into the “ ins and outs ” of Roman so- 
ciety ; they felt their superiority, but concealed 


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149 


it beneath the most charming- suavity. The 
two young countesses were surrounded, be- 
sieged, and, strange to say, their ovation was 
almost greater from the women than even 
from the men. Everything about them was 
the subject of admiration — their small feet, 
their characteristic yet delicate and sharply 
defined profiles, their slender waists, the color 
of their hair, the artistic simplicity of their 
toilets. There were wagers as to whether their 
dresses came from Fanet or Worth. 

Suddenly a stir in the adjoining room an- 
nounced the entry of some favorite of societ}'. 
Zinka, without her mother, but accompanied 
by Cecil, coming up to the hostess, held out 
her hand to her with affectionate greeting. 

“You are incorrigible. You always come 
too late,” said Lady Julia, with affectionate 
reproach. 

“Like repentance and the police,” returned 
Zinka gayly, while Lady Julia presented her 
to the Countess Jatinsky. 

“ But now, come and help me pour out tea ; 
you know, dear child, I always count upon 
your assistance,” continued Lady Julia, “ and 
first, pass these cups to your charming young 
countrywomen.” 

Polyxena and Nini were sitting some five 
paces off, surrounded by the elite of the Roman 


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scions of aristocracy. Zinka, approaching them 
with her winning grace, came full upon Count 
Sempaly, who could do no less than speak and 
shake hands. And' as every one else in his 
position would have done, he just lighted upon 
the most unsuitable thing to say possible : : 
“ What an age it is since we have met ! ” 

With head lightly thrown back, and looking 
at him through her half-closed eyes with be- 
witching disdain : “You have been continu- 
ing your Ash-Wednesday penance, I suppose ? ” 
she said. 

“Perhaps !” he answered, with involuntary 
smile. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“I was inclined to break off acquaintance 
with you,” she said, “but since” — glancing ; 
at the two young countesses — “I know the 
reason of your faithlessness, I, at any rate, ■] 
can understand it. Perhaps you will have ! 
the kindness to introduce me to those ladies.” 1 

“Fraulein Sterzl.” As he pronounced the j 
name, a suppressed smile curled the corners 
of Polyxena’s mouth. Zinka saw the smile, \ 
and saw, too, the sudden change in Sempaly’s ; 
bearing, how affected and insufferably haughty ; 
it had become. Deadly pale, with flashing 
eyes, she hastily returned the bow^s of the 
Austrian girls and turned away. Sterzl, 


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151 


watching* the little scene from a doorway, as 
he talked to Truyn, knitted his brows. 

Meanwhile Sempaly, drawing up a stool close 
to his cousins, had seated himself deliberately 
with his back to the tea-table at which Zinka 
was officiating. 

“So that is the renowned Zenaide Sterzl ? " 
began Polyxena, mockingly. “ You can't be 
said to have bad taste, Nicki. But what a tone 
of intimac}" she takes with you. It is rather 
cool, to say the least of it ! " 

He made no reply. 

“She seems to treat you as if you were her 
own property ! " 

“Oh, Zen a,” said Nini, anxious to check 
her sister's love of satire. “Do not speak so 
loud." 

Here Mr. Ellis appearing, informed the ladies 
that Monsieur B., the prize student, would kindly 
favor the company with his “Arabian Sym- 
phony." 

Therd was a fresh exit to the music room. 
After the symphony, a young Belgian count, 
who devoted all his spare time to the composi- 
tion of funeral marches, and was, moreover, 
renowned for his rendering of canzonettas and 
chansonettes, such as are to be heard in the 
streets of Florence, or the Cafe Chantants of 
Paris, seated himself at the piano and gave a 


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ONE OF US. 


love duet between a cock and hen with such 
feeling* that the whole company applauded to 
the echo amid shouts of laug-hter — the Jatin- 
skys especially, to whom the kind of entertain- 
ment was quite new. 

Mrs. Ferguson sang some Paris couplets, 
and Mr. Ellis played an adagio of Beethoven’s 
upon the concertina ; then Zinka was asked to 
sing. 

“ What shall I sing ? You know my exten- 
sive repertoire she said, turning with forced 
gayety to Mr. Ellis. 

“We beg fora stornello,” exclaimed Sieg- : 
burg, going up to the piano. “Vieni Maggio, 
vieni primavera.” Lady Julia seconded his pe- ; 
tition. Zinka played a few notes of the accom- 
paniment, and her voice, sweet, but somewhat 
veiled, wafted like the note of a bird through 
the room. She had never yet sung the first ; 
words of that song but that he had come, from 
the furthest corner of the room, to her side, i 
Involuntarily raising her eyes, her look sought 
him. There he sat leaning back comfortably in 
the corner of a sofa, by Polyxena ; holding his 
foot on his knee in free and easy manner, he .j 
was smiling at some whispered communication 
from her. Zinka lost her presence of mind. A 
bewildering timidity came over her ; she could 
not sing that song in his presence. Her voice 


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153 


broke ; she forgot the accompaniment ; nerv- 
ously attempted to strike a few chords, and 
suddenly rose shame-faced from the piano. 

“ I cannot sing to-night,’’ she stammered. 
Polyxena made some malicious remark which 
irritated Sempaly. He was on the point of 
leaving her to go to Zinka and console her for 
her break-down ; but ere he could make up his 
mind, Nini had risen. Despite her timidity 
she went straight across the room to Zinka, 
and said a few kind, sympathetic words. 

Sempaly remained where he was. But a lit- 
tle later, as he wrapped Nini in her opera cloak, 
he murmured, “You are a real good sort, 
Nini,” and kissed her hand. 


CHAPTER X. 

Sempaly’s attentions to her had made Zinka 
the fashion ; his abrupt withdrawal not only 
of his attentions, but of almost all intercourse 
with her, naturally exposed her to ridicule on 
all sides. People began to tell of the capital 
caricature of Sterzl and his sister Sempaly 
had sketched that evening at the Vulpini’s. 


154 


ONE OF US. 


Countess Gaudry, formerly one of Sempaly’s 
flames, but since deserted on Zinka ’s account, 
showed it to her friends with most malicious 
innuendos. People made merry over the little 
adventuress who had come to Home to win a 
princely coronet, and had had to put up with 
such sharp humiliation. 

Of course the leaders of Roman society com- ■ 
peted with those of the international circle to 
do honor to the Jatinskys. Countess Gaudry j 
opened the cycle of ovation with a soiree, j 
at which Ristori was to recite. Sterzl was ; 
naturally among* those invited. His mother j 
and sister were not included. It was the first j 
occasion since Zinka’s appearance at the Ilsen- j 
bergh’s that she had been passed over in any j 
exclusive society. Many international fashion- i 
able ladies followed the Gaudy’s example, de- ] 
sirous to show themselves to the full as exclusive j 
as the Austrians, and not sorry also to revenge 1 
themselves for many a thoughtless, inconsid- \ 
erate word uttered by Zinka, when she ranked I 
among the favorites of society. 

The true Roman nobility troubled itself not | 
in the slightest with all this pettiness, treating J 
Zinka with the same superficial politeness as j 
before. Upon her their politeness made as j 
little impression as did the pin thrusts on other \ 
sides. Had her feelings not been so deeply | 


concerned in Sempaly’s defection, she would 
assuredly have felt most bitterly all the social 
humiliations to which she was so persistently 
subjected. But her one great grief made her 
impervious to all lesser ones. There is a sor- 
row which ridicule cannot touch ! All the 
same, invited or not, she could no longer 
prevail upon herself to go into society. The 
very thought of meeting Sempaly again in a 
drawing-room with his cousins filled her with 
mortal agony. She had become another being. 
A timid smile now perpetually haunted her lips 
like the ghost of a dead happiness, her move- 
ments had lost all their elasticity. Her gait 
reminded one of an angel dragging its wings. 

The Baroness Sterzl, of course, drove as be- 
fore in the Corso, busying herself with extraor- 
dinary perseverance to bow to all her society 
; friends. She also went out alone to entertain- 
ments as often as she reasonably could. To be 
; ill [friends with Countess Gaudry, and yet on 
i visiting terms with all the Roman duchesses, 
j afforded her a sense of proud satisfaction. 

The on ly thing that really annoyed her at 
I that time was the cross-questioning adopted by 
j her indiscreet sister, W olnitzska, concerning the 
state of things between Zinka and Sempaly. 

She had herself from pure love of boasting, 
the very day after her sister’s arrival, given 


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her to understand that Zinka was as good 
as engaged, but that it was not to be made 
public yet. Her aunt’s want of tact had well- 
nigh driven Zinka to madness, when happily, 
and perhaps with kind intention, Siegburg con- 
trived one day, when he happened to meet 
mother and daughter at the Palazetto, so to 
terrify them with accounts of Roman fever 
that, filled with unreasoning panic, they took 
train the very next morning for Naples. 

The one who felt most acutely the abrupt < 
change in the tone of society toward his family 
was, strange to say, Sterzl. Heretofore he had • 
ever been too large-minded to trouble his head 1 
about petty notions of caste, and had, more- \ 
over, a too wise and manly sense of self-respect \ 
ever to exhibit that morbid sensitiveness to- ; 
ward those of higher rank which often ren- 
ders it difficult to even the most considerate of 
aristocrats to avoid hurting the susceptibilities j 
of an inferior. 

Democratic spleen is a malady undergone by 
every commoner — from Werther downward — ^ 
who happens to be brought in contact with aris- j 
tocratic circles. Sterzl, however, had now lived 
so long in the atmosphere that he should have 
become acclimatized to it. But no. He had I 
caught the malady overnight, and like all child- 


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157 


ish diseases taken by adults, he took it severely. 
All the agony now endured by his worshiped 
sister he placed to the charge, not of his own 
imprudence and Sempaly’s weakness of char- 
acter, but solety and alone to the tyranny of 
social prejudice. Thenceforth he conceived the 
most violent contempt for all phases of society, 
and became insufferable toward it. Perfectly 
well-bred, and accustomed from early child- 
hood to the forms of good society, he never 
could divest himself from the manners of a 
gentleman ; but as far as he could he did. He 
laid down the law ; he was irritable ; utterly 
wanting in courtesy ; and, as a consequence, 
was always in hot water. 

Even at home he was not what he used to be. 
His pride suffered intolerably that Zinka should 
so ill understand how to conceal her grief ; while 
he was humiliated at being so powerless to 
lessen her pain. At first, trying to divert her 
mind, he wmuld bring her concert and opera 
tickets ; or the most charming trinkets, or 
pieces of rare old china, carved ivory, or a 
thousand things that she used to love. For- 
merly they would have excited her to rapture ; 
now she merely smiled with the grateful thanks 
of an invalid for whom some delicate dish is 
provided that he is unable any more to enjoy. 
They could see how hard she tried to take 


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pleasure in it all; the tears standing- in her 
eyes the while. 

This excited Sterzl to frenzy. At first he 
had sternly avoided paining- her by any men- 
tion of Sempaly. But as days and weeks went 
by without bringing the least change in her de- 
jected condition, he grew impatient. The whim 
seized him to open Zinka’s eyes about the man- 
ner of man that he was. With his straight- 
forward, determined character, he had ever 
made short work of his own disappointments, 
however sharp hit he might have been. He 
had always been accustomed to “ let a thing 
slide that would not pull straight,” and then 
at once to turn to fresh interests. 

A clear insight into things had ever been the 
main thing with him. Truth was his religion. 
He could not understand that to a nature such 
as Zinka’s her illusions were a necessity ; could 
not understand that Zinka was striving to trace 
the change in Sempaly to the force of circum- 
stances ; to her own unworthiness ; to every- 
thing, in short, but to himself ; that she was 
feeling the absolute need of being still able 
to love him, even were he forever lost to her. 
Cecil’s rigid nature could not understand the 
fluctuating character of Zinka’s tender, ever- 
changing temperament. 

She would never answer the depreciating, 


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159 


contemptuous words with which her brother 
always now coupled Semplay’s name, but would 
listen silently, looking at him with her shy, 
frightened eyes and white cheeks, like some 
dying martyr whom her persecutors are trying 
to convince that there is no God. 

The brilliant result attained by Cecil in his 
well-meant clumsy efforts was, for the time, a 
complete estrangement between himself and 
his sister ; an estrangement which, though only 
outward with him, with her went far deeper. 

This naturally caused Sterzl’s hatred toward 
Sempaly to increase in vehemence. Brought 
daily in contact with each other, there arose 
continual subjects of disagreement between 
them. 

Sterzl would make the most biting comments 
upon any little omission of Sempaly’ s in the 
course of [his official duties, and would sneer 
in the most cutting manner concerning the 
short - comings of a young relative of the 
count’s, lately attached to the Embassy. 
“ There is no room for doubt,” he concluded 
one of his attacks, “but that we Austrians 
think it of far higher importance that an at- 
tache should be of good family than that he 
should know how to spell.” 

To such coarse, tactless speeches did he allow 
his irritation to lead him now ! 


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Without ever losing his temper at any such 
observation, Sempaly would smilingly look 
straight before him and make answer in lazy 
singing voice : “ Right you are ! Astonish- 
ing the prejudices that still exist in the world. 
Hm ! We really ought to take example by 
the French Corps diplomatique. Don’t you 
think so ? ” 

Some days before, there had been a sarcas- 
tic article in the Figaro upon the latest blunder 
of one of its plebeian representatives at some 
foreign court. 

True, Sempaly might have answered him in 
more arrogant fashion, but the more subtle his 
irony, the more certain it was to increase Sterzl’s 
irritation. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Countess Jatinsky passed nearly the whole 
time of her visit to Rome upon her couch. If 
asked how she liked Rome, she would reply 
that she found it terribly fatiguing. Were her 
daughters asked the same question, they de- 
clared it to be enchanting. Sempaly knew per- 


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161 


fectly well that what they liked best in Eome 
was their unworthy cousin. He certainly dis- 
played all his accustomed amiability for their 
benefit, praised or blamed this or that in their 
toilets, made becoming* alterations with his own 
hands in the style of dressing their hair, kept 
them conscientiously informed as to their con- 
quests, and gave them cigarettes and trinkets 
from Castelani’s. 

When nothing else offered itself, he would 
take them, always under the chaperonage of 
some matron, to visit a picture-gallery, or one 
of the churches. Polyxena had a way of 
hurrying past the greatest work of art with 
nose in the air, then suddenly stopping 
short to laugh and call attention to a comi- 
cal observation of some tourist she had 
overheard, or to some extraordinary cos- 
tume she had spied out. Nini, with more re- 
spect for art, looked at each work conscien- 
tiously according to the catalogue, and even 
kept a diary. Polyxena was usually considered 
the handsomer and cleverer of the two sisters. 
Sempaly paid her the most attention, although 
he decidedly gave Nini the preference. The 
time he did not devote to his cousins he spent 
almost exclusively at the club, where he lost 
large sums of money. He was looking ill, and 
complained of attacks of Roman fever. 


162 


ONE OF US. 


What did the world say to his conduct ? 
Phlegmatic Italian society concerned itself no- 
wise therewith ; Mesdames Ferguson and De 
Gaudry laughed about it ; Siegburg stigmatized 
it as scandalous; and Ilsenbergh, as, at least, 
greatly wanting in tact. The general opinion 
was that he ought to have had himself trans- 
ferred. Princess Yulpini had long, sorrowful 
conferences with the general upon it, reproach- 
ing herself bitterly for not having sooner 
grasped the situation ; not having even given 
sufficient attention to Sempaly’s marked atten- 
tion to Zinka, thinking more of Sieg'burg’s evi- 
dent admiration in that quarter, and only 
taking a motherly interest in the “good 
match ” for her favorite. 

Truyn was simply furious at Sempaly’s heart- 
less conduct. What he was at that time to Zinka 
can only be conceived by any one who, suffer- 
ing from a bitter, and, at the same time, 
humiliating sorrow, has known what it is to 
have the support of a delicate-minded, noble- 
hearted friend ever at hand. He was the only 
one, in that dark hour, who never caused her 
an instant’s pain. He had the light hand and 
infinite tenderness which even the best of men 
only attain to after having themselves under- 
gone much sorrow. 

Every afternoon he would come with his 


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163 


little daughter to fetch Zinka for a walk, 
knowing how painful the drive in the Corso 
must be to her now. And while the baroness, 
reclining luxuriously in her carriage, joined the 
world of fashion in the daily drive to Villa 
Borghese and the Pincio, the three — sometimes 
the general would make a fourth — would be 
walking in the drean^ cloister gardens, or 
driving far out to the Campagna. 

Never once did Truyn cause her to shed 
a secret tear ; and many a painful blush, 
called up to her wan cheeks by some thought- 
less remark of the others, did he help her to 
conceal. 

On a sultry afternoon in spring, Truyn w T as 
sauntering along with the general and his two 
daughters — as he playfully called Zinka and 
Gabrielle — after a long expedition through 
the dark picturesque streets which surround 
the Pantheon. 

The neighborhood was poor and squalid. 
Over a high garden wall hung a mulberry 
tree just breaking into leaf ; in its branches 
a blackbird was singing ; a few bright red 
geraniums behind the rusty bars of a little 
window near broke the dull brown monotony; 
over the tall roofs was an arch of deep blue 
sky. The air was sultry and oppressive in 


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the extreme, and permeated with a smell of 
drains and decayed vegetables. From out one 
of the windows came a woman's voice, singing 
a melancholy, passionate love song. All at 
once, blackbird and singer were silenced ; a 
dull howling and groaning filled the lonely 
street ; the air was darkened with a thick, 
black smoke. 

Zinka, whose nerves had been sadly un- 
strung of late, started violently. “ It is noth- 
ing — only a funeral," said Truyn, as he took 
off his hat. 

It was already passing them. A Roman 
funeral, in all its picturesque and horror-in- 
spiring details. A long procession of mys- 
terious disguised figures, their eyes peering 
through two slits in the coarse sacking which 
covers their heads, a rope round their waists, 
carrying either torches, or dread banners 
bearing the insignia of Death upon them — 
then a number of bare-footed monks ; finally, 
the coffin covered with a funeral pall of bright 
yellow, and borne by more men disguised like 
the first, bending beneath the weight of their 
burden. With the red glimmer and black 
smoke of the torches, the groaning voices of 
the singers, the flashing eyes peering out from 
the masked faces, ghostlike, and emitting a 
combined odor of mildew and incense, as ot 


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165 


some re-opened grave of the Middle Ages, the 
procession passed on through the narrow street. 

Half fainting, Zinka leaned on Truyn’s arm. 
Gabrielle, who, childlike, had been far less im- 
pressed, followed it with curious eyes, and soon 
had entered into conversation with a woman 
in the crowd in her fluent ungrammatical Ital- 
ian. 

“ Who is it that is being buried ? ” she asked, 
after several other questions. 

“ Una donna” was the answer. 

“ Young ? ” continued the child. 

“Si.” 

“ What did she die of ? fever ? ” 

“No,” said the Roman woman with a shrug 
of her shoulders ; then added in the melodious 
drawling tone peculiar to the people of Rome^ 
“ di passione ! ” 

The procession had passed on, the groaning 
had died away — the blackbird resumed its 
song. 

They continued their way, weary Zinka lean- 
ing on Truyn’s arm, the general and the mer- 
ry child behind. 

“ Passione ? Is that a Roman illness ? ” she 
asked the old general with her irrepressible 
thirst for knowledge. 

“ No. It is pretty general everywhere,” re- 
turned the old man dryly. 


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“ But only among- the people, I suppose?” 
said Gabrielle. 

“ No. It is to be met with in hig-her circles 
too, only then it is called by another name,” 
he replied with involuntary bitterness, more to 
himself than to Gabrielle. 

“Is it a disgrace then to die of it?” she 
asked with wide open astonished eyes. 

Suddenly the general perceived that Zinka 
was listening to them ; at the child’s foolish 
question she had sunk her head. 

Such a thing would have deprived him of all 
self-possession ; he would have been powerless 
to say a word to the poor humiliated girl. Not 
so Truyn. Stooping down to her, he whispered 
a few words in her ear ; the general could not 
distinguish what he said, but evidently it was 
something kind and encouraging. Something 
which, without making reference to the past, 
proved to her how highly he prized and es- 
teemed her, for she answered him quietly and 
naturally ; and he went on to talk of his early 
days, of pleasant characteristic traits of his 
parents, and similar things grateful to a 
wounded spirit. And as they parted at the 
door of the Palazetto, she could even smile at 
him. 

“ He may not be a genius, but he certainly 
has a good heart ! ” said the general to himself. 


ONE OF US. 


167 


Once or twice Truyn rode with her in the 
Campagna. This she enjoyed at first ; hut one 
day they came upon Sempaly, galloping in 
high spirits with his two lovely cousins over 
the anemone-sown turf. From that time she 
made excuses and avoided the Campagna. As 
though she must not expect to he constantly 
meeting him and them! Why did she stay on 
in Rome ? Sterzl would not hear of her de- 
parture ; in his eyes it would have been looked 
upon as retreat after a lost battle by satirical 
Roman society. For a totally different reason 
did the baroness also oppose any curtailing of 
their stay in Rome. She had rented the Pala- 
zetto until the fifteenth of May ! 

And did Zinka seriously want to leave the 
place where she had known such sorrow ? She 
often said that she was yearning for home ; but 
every time their departure was mentioned she 
shrank back in alarm. She dreaded to meet 
him , yet longed to do so ; and of an evening, 
sitting in the drawing-room of the Palazetto, 
Truyn would notice how, every time the gate- 
bell sounded, Zinka would give a start and look 
expectantly toward the portiere. 

In her poor heart there still lurked a glim- 
.mer of hope, weary, heart-broken hope, which 
w T as nothing more than pain and unrest. 




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ONE OF US. 


BOOK THIRD. 


EASTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

It is Holy Week in Rome, and an Italian 
spring* is in all its wealth of sunny glory ! 
Even in the mystical half light of St. Peter’s 
glides the spring-tide sheen, now flickering for 
a moment on the holy water, now falling across 
the figures of gigantic angels, now upon the 
intricate sculpture of grand statuary, now upon 
the delicate tesselated pavement — all with the 
cold glitter of light reflected on the hard sur- 
face of marble. 

The hours go by one by one ; the long devout 
hours of Wednesday in Holy Week. Then the 
last glimmer of daylight fades away, a mysteri- 
ous twilight pervades the Cathedral of St. Pe- 
ter’s ; a transparent veil, as of crape, floats over 
all its glories. The hard stone walls no longer 
visible, the whole vast temple seems as if built 
of shadows ; growing ever more and more mys- 


ONE OF US. 


169 


tic, as though descending from heaven to earth, 
it seems impregnated with a holy mystery. 
Zinka kneels in the Papal Chapel, between Ga- 
brielle and Count Truyn, her eyes bent on the 
ground, her hands convulsively clasped, pray- 
ing with all the fanaticism of a youthful spirit 
whose hopes, wrecked on earth, seek an abiding 
place in heaven. To right and left of them sit 
the reverend prelates in their carved stalls, clad 
in all the ornate magnificence of their vest- 
ments. To their very feet press the indiscreet 
throng of strangers, irreverent, curious. 

In modulations of stern recitative resounds 
the tragedy of the Passion through the sacred 
edifice. 

The last of the twelve candles on the altar. 
has been extinguished. “ Miserere mei ” peals 
through the building now with terrific grandeur, 
anon shudderingly, marvelously sweet it dies 
away in tremulous tones, until, rising to the 
most awful cry of anguish, it echoes through 
the profound stillness as the agonized cry of 
the God of Love over the pain and sorrow from 
which even He could not free the children of 
men ! Before the majesty of that divine self- 
sacrificing sorrow the individual sorrow of 
poor humanity must bend the knee. 

Zinka bows her head. 

The service is over. The last tones of the 


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ONE OF US. 


organ have died sobbing away. The crowd 
joins in the procession which, with a cardinal 
at its head, proceeds through the sacred edifice. 
Truyn and the two girls, leaving the chapel, 
draw near to the entrance door. Behind them 
the procession, drowned by the sounds of their i 
own footsteps, sounds like the rush of angels* i 
wings. In the midst of this solemn peace 
Zinka’s heart is quieted. For the first time for ; 
weeks she has forgotten. 

“ Most interesting. But the bass was dread- i 
fully hoarse.” 

It is Polyxena Jatinsky, who, now a hair’s : 
breadth from Zinka, is giving expression to this ■ 
somewhat summary criticism upon the impres- 
sive service.. Zinka looks up ; Sempaly, with 
his aunt and his two cousins, is standing close j 
beside her, they having witnessed the eeremony 1 
from the choir stalls. 

Involuntarily,, to avoid a painful meeting, 
Zinka presses forward. But Gabrielle has ^ 
meanwhile exchanged greetings with her 
friends. There is general conversation. The 
Jatinskys are all very friendly to Zinka, this i 
time; even Polyxena shakes hands. Sempaly 
alone holds aloof. 

As they leave St, Peter’s the air strikes 
chilly, almost sharpty, upon Zinka’s face, j 
She shivers. All at once she hears 



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171 


known voice say, bruskly, close behind her — 
“ You are too lightly dressed, and the air is 
infected with fever. Let me put this round 
you,” and Sempalv infolds her in a wrap he 
was carrying for one of his cousins. 

“ Thank you, I am not at all cold. Your 
cousins will be needing it,” exclaims Zinka 
quickly, resisting his endeavors. 

Polyxena is silent, perhaps thinking it some- 
what odd that her cousin, in his concern for 
the little stranger, should seem to have totally 
forgotten that she or her sister might be 
catching cold. But Nini exclaims, with ready 
good nature : 

“Oh, no, Fraulein. We are well wrapped.” 

Count Truyn’s servant, who had been look- 
ing out for his master in the crowd, now com- 
ing up, told the count that his carriage was 
waiting. 

And while Zinka, sitting beside Gabrielle, 
wrapped in Nini’s China crepe shawl, rolls 
past the plashing fountains, over the Angel’s 
Bridge, and through the deserted, ill-lit streets 
leading to the Palazetto, every nerve within 
her thrills once more, and the stars above in 
the deep, blue sky are shining with unnatural 
brightness. Her grief is resuscitated, and with 
it the terribly enticing specter of her lost joys. 
Heavens ! how clearly it all comes back to her 


172 


ONE OF US. 


mind — with what terrible clearness — that long*, 
dreamy afternoon in the Palatine, those wonder- 
ful hours in the lonely Corsini gardens under 
the plantains by the fountain, where he told 
her of Erzburg, while the scent of violets and 
irises rose so intoxicating^ round her ! Oh ! 
the sound of his voice, the touch of his light, 
slender hand, his smile, his peculiar wa}^ of 
saying certain words, of looking at her at 
times. 

Once more she wanders with him through 
the Vatican, intoxicated with the beauty of 
the long rows of statuary. The fountains of 
the Belvedere plash in monotonous dreamy 
accents. A golden shimmer of light glides ' 
across the marble floors, like golden footprints i 
left behind them by the gods ere they ascend 
their pedestals. Through the lofty corridors 
is a mysterious rustling and whispering as of 
far-off spirit voices. 

Then one time — it was in front San Ono- 
frio’s — a soft sun-impregnated mist clouding 
the atmosphere, at their feet, enveloped in 
ether, shadowy and fairylike, as though all- 
pervaded with the spirit of its dead beauty, 
lay Rome — Rome, the great religious shrine of 
the whole world ; Rome, upon whose monu- 
ments and ruins all the vices and virtues of 
humanity have left their impress — where the 


ONE OF US. 


173 


tragedy of Antiquity greets the tragedy of 
Calvary. 

They had gazed long in silence upon it ; then 
she had missed a little bunch of violets she 
wore, and, stooping to look for it, she saw that 
he had quietly picked up the flowers, and was 
pressing them to his lips. Her eyes met his. 
Yes, he had loved her — loved iher truly — loved 
her still. She knew it. She told herself that, 
impulsive, excitable as he was, the merest 
chance incident might yet bring him back to 
her. 

Whether it were wise to yearn so unreason- 
ably after one who was the sport of every wind 
that blew, she did not ask herself ! 

And all amid the tormenting ghost-like 
visions of her memory— amid the stamping of 
the horses' hoofs and noise of the wheels upon 
the badly paved roads— the “ Miserere mei ” 
was ringing in her ears. 

But her thoughts were not of the Christ 
who suffered for man’s sins. The stoutest 
angel’s wings avail not to carry us up to 
Heaven while our hearts drag us down to 
earth. 

“ Good-night,” she said, absently kissing 
Gabrielle, as the carriage drew up at the 
Palazetto. 

« Will you not lend me Nini’s shawl for the 


174 


ONE OF ua. 


child ? ” asked Truyn, detaining her. “ I am 
afraid my little comrade has taken a chill. ” 
“ Oh, indeed, I trust not ! cried Zinka 
alarmed. Then, wrapping her in its soft folds 
with maternal solicitude, she kissed Gabhielle 
repeatedly. “ Shall I never learn to think of 
anybody but myself ? 79 she thought, with a rush 
of angry shame. 


CHAPTER II 


Holy Week is over. The bells of the many 
churches, which have been stilled in mute I 
rigidity during the period of meditation upon 
the solemn scene on Mount Calvary, once more 
sound their brazen tongues. It is Easter 
Monday. Representations of the Resurrection 
in sugar, wax, soap, etc., ornament the win- 
dows of all the bon-bon shops and. grocers of 
Rome. Baroness Wolnitzska has returned more : 
cheerful and enterprising than ever from her 1 
flight to Naples, where she not only had had ; 
herself photographed leaning in poetic attitude 
against a column of the ruins of Pompeii, bu 



ONE OF US. 


175 


had also, despite difficulties caused by^her 
corpulence, with the aid of two guides and 
ant uncommonly sturdy mule, effected the as- 
cent of Mount Vesuvius. Thanks to the good 
offices of the nephew of a cardinal, with whom 
she had started a conversation in the railway 
station, in the hope of making him of some use, 
she has at last succeeded in obtaining, if not 
exactly a private audience of the Pope, at any 
rate the privilege of attending His Holiness’s 
private mass, and, in company with some three 
hundred other devout Catholics, of receiving 
the Elements from his own hand. 

This morning she has visited the Palazetto, 
for the several purposes of taking leave of her 
sister Clotilde, of inquiring for the last time, 
with her customary tact, about Count Sem- 
paly, of giving a detailed account of the cere- 
mony at the Vatican, and holding a philo- 
sophical disquisition upon Holy Communion 
in general. 

Slava, whose Catholicism has now reached 
a pitch of enthusiasm, and who on Good Fri- 
day heroicalty made the ascent of the Scala 
Santa upon her knees, finished up her mother’s 
account with the following interesting details : 

“It was very exclusive, you know. We were 
quite among ourselves, only one or two other 
families belonging to Polish society. I wore 


176 


ONE OF US. 


my black satin dress, embroidered with jet 
beads ; and I heard a gentleman behind me 
say, ‘ This is the only lady whose veil is tafte- 
fully arranged.’ ” 

Sterzl has not entered an appearance during 
their call; Zinka has smiled sweetly but ab- 
sently at their conversation ; Baroness Clotilde 
has put endless questions to her sister. 

Now the Wolnitzskys have hurried away to 
attend once more, at the invitation of the car- 
dinal’s nephew, the consecration of a bishop, 
at which the ladies are to be refreshed with ices 
and flowers in the sacristy. 

It might have been about six o’clock when 
General Klinger entered the drawing-room of 
the Palazetto that evening. The room no 
longer had the charming inhabited look of 
yore. The furniture was now symmetrically 
arranged in the tasteless conventional manner 
of servants’ handiwork, and the once charm- 
ing floral arrangements had given place to 
vases filled with ordinary bunches of violets 
and magnolias. Zinka no longer thought of 
arranging the flowers. 

“How nice of you to come to-day,” she 
cried, as he entered, the feverish sparkle in 
her eyes and her crimsoned lips betraying the 
presence of that springtide fever which causes 


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177 


such maddening* torture to young hearts on 
warm days in April and May. 

She was sitting by Cecil on the red divan 
where she had so often sat with Sempaly. At 
a little distance was the baroness, leaning back 
in an armchair, fanning herself. Her whole per- 
son breathed an air of triumphant solemnity. 
Even Cecil seemed in unusual spirits ; although 
not betraying it by any alteration in his usual 
manner. 

“ Good-day, general ! What disagreeable 
sultry weather it is,” lisped the baroness. 
“ It is incredible that you should find us all at 
home together ; but we all have the most holy 
horror of the crowded streets on these holiday 
afternoons.” 

“ Oh, mamma ! ” broke in Zinka. “ It is not 
only the holiday throng that has kept us at 
home, but because we wanted to enjoy our hap- 
piness together. Did we not, Cecil ? ” 

“ Yes, Zini,” he acquiesced, passing his hand 
over her hair. 

“Only think, uncle. You may perhaps have 
heard that Cecil's book upon Persia has made a 
great sensation ; but that is not all. He has 
been appointed Charge d’ Affaires to Constan- 
tinople.” 

The general congratulated Sterzl, shaking 
him warmly by the hand as he did so. 


178 


ONE OF US. 


“I could not have desired a better post,” 
said Sterzl. “ There is always work to be done 
there. It is the place in which to make one’s 
services available, and to get on.” 

He showed his satisfaction honestly, and 
without affecting any arrogant indifference 
concerning the distinction awarded him. 

“ In another five years you will be embassa- 
dor, my dear boy,” said the general, with the 
encouraging spirit of exaggeration never ab- 
sent on such occasions. 

“ Promotion is not quite so rapid as all that,” 
laughed Sterzl. “Yet I have hopes of attain- 
ing to it some day. Should you feel proud of 
me, Butterfly, if 1 were to be styled Excel- 
lency ? ” 

“ I am already proud of you,” she exclaimed. 
“You know my vanity, and how much impor- 
tance I attach to such things.” 

It was the first time for weeks that the gen- 
eral had seen the brother and sister so af- 
fectionate to one another; and it rejoiced his 
heart. 

“It is a good climate,” continued Sterzl. 
“I am told the best in all Europe; and there 
is pleasant society in the European colony. 
You will be interested at being able to get 
such a bird’s-eye view of Oriental manners and 


ONE OF US. 


179 


customs, Zini ; and the change of air will do 
you good .’ 7 

“ Are you going to take me with you ? ” she 
asked, a sudden pallor overspreading her cheeks. 

“ Why, of course, goose. The Golden Horn 
is splendid, Zini, and we must have our caique 
and row about ; and if I can manage it for 
time, in autumn we can make little excursions 
into Grecee. What a traveled little person 
you will be, Zini ! ” and kindly putting his fore- 
finger under her chin, he looked with anxious 
affection into her thin little face, from which 
now every vestige of color had fled ; even the 
light which joy at her brother’s success had 
kindled in Zinka’s blue eyes had faded. 

“It will be very delightful,” she answered 
faintly, “ very delightful. Thank you, dear 
Cecil. You are always so kind. When do 
we start ? ” 

t( In a week you could be ready. You will 
not find the sea voyage fatiguing ; you can 
have a rest at Athens. In the hot weather we 
will go to the hills — ” Looking intently into her 
eyes, his expression abruptly changed. With 
knit brows, he cried, almost roughly, “ If you 
don’t want to go, you can stay here. I have no 
desire to force you !” Here the maid, entering, 
announced the arrival of a box from the rail- 
way station. 


180 


ONE OF US. 


“ Our new ball dresses ! ” exclaimed the bar- 
oness, in high excitement. “ I am glad that 
they have arrived in time. I should have been 
an desespoir if we had had no new dresses to 
appear in for the Brancaleone’s ball. It would 
have seemed such a want of consideration to 
the dear princess. I wonder what Fanet has 
devised for us this time ? ” and the silly woman 
rustled out of the room. Meanwhile Zinka, 
looking like a condemned prisoner whose day 
of execution has just been announced, nervously 
twisting her fingers, went on : 

“Of course I will go, Cecil. Now can you 
suppose. . . . And we might start on Wed- 
nesday week — Wednesday will be best. . . . 
Now I must go and see my new dress. Do not 
laugh at me, uncle. I want to be as smart as 
possible on my farewell appearance. 5 ’ 

And she went so hurriedly to the door that 
she struck against a table and knocked down 
a book in her feverish haste. Pausing, she 
picked up the book, turned over its pages, re- 
placed it, and turning hesitatingly, and as if 
asking pardon for some wrong committed, laid 
her transparent hand upon her brother’s shoul- 
der. “Thank you, dear,” she murmured. “ I 
am really, really glad and proud of you ! and—” 

He looked up at her, his eyes met hers. His 
face quivered with anger — that anger which 


ONE OF US. 


181 


noble, unselfish, but despotic natures experience 
when they feel themselves powerless to make 
those they love happy. Terrified at his ex- 
pression, she shrank back. “Ah, my ball 
dress,” she cried, and rushed away. 

For a while there reigned perfect silence. 
Then the general said : 

“Is Zinka going to the Brancaleone’s to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Yes,” responded Sterzl. “ At least, so she 
promised me. Whether she may change her 
mind at the last moment and stay at home it 
is impossible to say,” and he drummed impa- 
tiently upon the table near which he was sit- 
ting. 

“ Ah well 1 she seems pleased at the ^thought 
of going this time, ’ ’ resumed the general . ‘ f She 
is evidently interested in her dress for the occa- 
sion.” 

“ Her dress ! She had not the remotest 
idea what she was talking about. She sim- 
ply rushed away that she might conceal her 
tears,” cried Sterzl violently, losing all self- 
command. Then looked moodily at the gen- 
eral, as though angry with liimself at having 
disclosed a secret. But the old man’s sad face 
seemed to pacify him. “It is* useless to try 
to disguise it from } 7 ou,” he said. “You must 
indeed have been blind had you not seen her 


182 


ONE OF US. 


misery. It is all over, general. Her heart is 
breaking ! ” 

Springing up, lie paced rapidly up and down 
the room once or twice, stood still, and, with a 
despairing gesture, spasmodically shrugged his 
shoulders as he murmured : 

“No help for her — no help!” and sitting 
down, covered his face with his hands. 

The good old general cleared his throat, 
sought in vain for some words of consolation, 
and could only say : 

“It will all come right again. Only have 
patience ! ” 

“Patience!” repeated Sterzl, with inde- 
scribable accent, “patience! Ah, if only 
I dared hope that things would be better ! 
Look, general ! At first I was enraged that 
she let her trouble be so apparent. She 
ought to have pulled herself together more, 
I thought. But now. Good God ! she is 
doing all she can ; and that she is dying by 
inches is no fault of hers. If she would only be 
angry ! But no ; she accuses no one. She is 
contented with everything ; she never even con- 
tradicts mamma now ! And then — and it is 
the worst of all — her room is over mine, and 
night after night I hear her walking up and 
down for hours, softly — oh, so softly ! — so as 
not to wake any one. And sometimes I 


ONE OF US. 


183 


hear her crying. She never cries in the 
daytime ! ” He drew a deep breath. “ Were 
it even for the sake of a man ! ” he muttered. 
“ But that blue-eyed, shuffling, worthless scoun- 
drel ! . . . I never ought to have brought 

her away from her home ; never ought to have 
allowed him to come to the house. I knew that 
he was not good enough for her, even if he, as 
I fondly imagined — you may well laugh at my 
blindness — had had the condescension to enter- 
tain serious intentions toward her. . . . Ah! 
general, you do not know what it is to have to 
meet the fellow daily, and to hear his eternal 
‘ How are your ladies ? ’ Confound him ! I 
feel inclined to throttle him, to crush him 
like a worm under my heel. And I have to 
be courteous — -dare not show him the harm he 
has done me ! ” 

Just then the baroness swept in again. 

“ iSuperbe ! ” she exclaimed with her minc- 
ing airs. “ Superbe ! Zinka has never had a 
costume that will become her so well.” 

“ That’s right,” observed Sterzl absently. 
“But where is Zinka?” 

“ She is lying down, she has a bad head- 
ache,” lisped the baroness. “ The young girls 
of the present day really are fit for nothing. 
At her age, I — ” 

But the general, not being in the mood to ex- 


184 


ONE OF US. 


change youthful recollections with his affected 
friend, here took his leave. In the vestibule 
he said, with a warm grasp of Sterzl’s hand : 

“ Fortune favors you, my dear boy. You 
have a brilliant future before you. And Zinka, 
in her new, most pleasant surroundings will 
soon forget — ” Then, with a farewell clasp of 
the hand : 

“ All good be with you in your new life ! 

Yes . . . his new life ! 


CHAPTER III. 

Palazzo Brancaleone is one of the finest in 
Rome, and is situated upon the declivity of the 
Quirinal. Specially famed are its gardens, 
which ascend the hill in terraces, the ground 
floor of the palace opening direct upon them. 

Dancing was going on in the ball-room, 
which opened into a spacious domed gallery. 
The walls hung with pictures alternating with 
mirrors. Subduing the warmer tints of the 
pictures was placed here and there some piece 
of antique sculpture in cold, stern marble. 
Many-hued chandeliers of costly Venetian glass 
were suspended from the ceiling. At the ex- 


185 


ONE OF US. 

treme end of this gallery, and separated from 
it by columns, two steps led to a sanctuary 
wherein were hung the choicest gems of the 
Brancaleone collection, although unfortunately 
side by side with many a specimen of coarser 
modern handiwork ; thence a door led out into 
the gardens. 

Zinka arrived late. A certain feverish ex- 
citement at first lent her complexion its lost 
freshness, while a look of melanchoty diffidence 
made her even more attractive than she had 
formerly been in her naive consciousness of tri- 
umph. Her ball dress was perfection. Evi- 
dently she had not lost all her charm of man- 
ner, for soon she had quite a court of young 
Roman dandies about her ; there were even a 
few seceders from those which swelled the 
young Countesses Jatinsky’s train. 

Count Truyn was not present. The chill 
caught by his little daughter in Holy Week was 
unfortunately threatening to take a serious 
turn ; and he did not leave her bedside. 

Zinka never looked so well as when dancing. 
With head thrown lightly back, dreamy eyes, 
and gliding movements, she excited general 
admiration. The music, the brilliant lights, 
the consciousness that she was being admired, 
a/1 tended to raise her spirits. Her eyes roved 
round the throng. No — he was not there. 


186 


ONE OF US.^ 


Sterzl stood leaning’ in a doorway chatting 
with the general and rejoicing in his sister’s 
loveliness and success. Many distinguished 
personages congratulated him upon his ap- 
pointment. He thanked them simply and cor- 
dially. Things seemed prospering with him. 
Shortly after midnight he was called away to 
Palazzo Venezia on urgent matters ; there was 
much disturbance in the diplomatic world at 
that time. 

Soon after he left came Sempaly. He had, 
it was generally known, been up all the night 
before gambling — a new passion of his — had 
lost heavily, and was now looking haggard 
and low-spirited. A lazy dancer, he had put 
off asking either of his pretty cousins for the 
cotilion, until so late that both were engaged 
— a fact received by him with such open indif- 
ference that Nini shed secret tears over it. 

Now, carelessly reclining in the embrasure of 
a window, glass in eye, he was making caustic 
remarks to the men lounging with him about 
the figure or face of this or that girl, doing his 
best to imagine himself transformed into Ma- 
caulay’s typical New Zealander, making his 
appearance for the first time in civilized so- 
ciety. Suddenly he was silent; something or 
another had arrested his attention. 

The band was playing the waltz of the season 


ONE OF US. 


187 


— Tosti’s “String! Mi. 5 ’ The atmosphere of 
the ball-room began to grow oppressive. It 
was the time when girls’ hair begins to lose its 
correct smoothness, and when their movements, 
which at the commencement Iiave been some- 
what stiff and conscious, begin to assume some- 
thing of languishing suppleness. A kind of 
electricity seems in the air, causing even the 
most indifferent on-looker to experience some- 
thing of inward excitement. 

Crespigny and Zinka glided by. Amid the 
excitement around her Zinka alone remained 
pale and calm. She was not living in the 
present ; she was dreaming. All at once Cres- 
pigny, who was a bad waltzer, collided with 
another couple, caught his foot in the lady’s 
train, and fell, dragging his partner with him. 
With impulsive want of consideration, Sempaly 
pressed through -the crowd, and before any one 
else could do so, had raised Zinka from the 
ground. Without paying the slightest heed 
to the many pair of eyes directed upon him, 
he bent over her ; her former power over him 
was reinstated. Confused and dizzy, she was 
hardly aware at first who had come to her as- 
sistance, as with closed eyes she clung to his 
arm. At his first whispered words of sympa- 
thy, she, looking up, blushed and shrank visi- 
bly away from him. 


188 


ONE OF US. 


<f What an unpleasant Intermezzo ! ” “ Most 
unpleasant!” whispered some of the ladies. 
Meanwhile, pressing- Zinka’s little hand with 
tender force on to his arm, Sempaly led her 
out of the heated ballroom into one of the ad- 
joining rooms. 


CHAPTER IY. 

The chance she had besought from Heaven 
had come about — the chance that brought them 
together once more. His old love had re- 
awakened. She knew it — she read it in his 
eyes. Now she exercised all her self-control 
to conceal her joy, not from a spirit of cal- 
culating coquetry, but from noble womanly 
reserve. He spoke the wildest passionate 
nonsense ; she interrupted him with demure 
commonplaces. 

He had gone to fetch her opera cloak. 
Wrapped in its white folds, she sauntered 
with him among the palms and statuary : now 
and then meeting an acquaintance she wnuld 
stop and exchange a few words. The gn 


ONE OF US. 


189 


became more and more deserted. The pause 
for supper had intervened ; every one had be- 
taken themselves to the buffet. Zinka’s cold 
manner, for which he was by no means pre- 
pared, increased Sempaly’s excitement. A sud- 
den feeling came over him that there could be 
nothing more delicious in the whole world than 
to hold her in his arms and kiss her wellnigh 
to death. Every nerve in his body yearned for 
that one blessed moment. He had no thought 
for anything else. He must win her at any 
price, were he and she, and all the world be- 
sides, to pay the forfeit of it. 

“Zinka,” he whispered hoarsely, “ Zinka, 
Lent is over and gone — Easter has come ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” she asked almost 
sharply, still maintaining her self-control. 

“ I mean” — his glowing eyes still fixed upon 
her face — “ I mean that I have done my pen- 
ance to the full ; and that now I mean to be 
happy.” 

They were standing in the smaller raised 
apartment, separated from the great gallery 
by columns. They were alone. A wild joy 
akin to pain seized Zinka, flowing through her 
veins like a sweet anodyne ; but still she re- 
mained silent, unsmiling, not once raising her 
eyes to his. She could not have smiled had she 
wished it ever so much — she was as if stupefied. 


190 


ONE OF US. 


He thought her purposely deaf to liis words. 

“ Zinka,” he implored, <f will you not forgive 
me that for the past six weeks I have been 
going about jingling a fool’s cap, to prevent 
myself from hearing the music of the spheres ? 
Will you not forgive me for the sake of the 
torture I have been enduring all this time ? I 
swear, by Heaven ! I can endure it no longer. 
Whether I sink or swim I cannot live without 
you ! ” 

Her enfeebled strength was not equal to such 
vehemence ; the frightful nervous strain her 
pride had lain upon her in the last quarter of 
an hour relaxed ; a shudder ran through her 
frame, she held out her hands helplessly for 
support, tottered, and almost fell. His arm 
was thrown protectingly round her, while with 
his other hand he pushed open the door leading 
out into the garden. 

“ Let us go out here, the air will revive you,” 
he murmured, scarce intelligibly. 

They went out into the silent garden. His 
arm closed more firmly round her, he drew 
her to him. Involuntarily he waited for some 
movement of resistance on her part, some terri- 
fied struggle to break away from him ; but no, 
looking up at him blissfully, her eyes overflow- 
ing with tears, she whispered : 

“ I ought not to forgive you so easily,” and 


ONE OF US. 


191 


fearlessly, confidingly, as a sick child nestles to 
her mother’s breast, she suffered her head to 
sink upon his shoulder, sobbing out her hap- 
piness. 

A strange feeling came over him. From be- 
low the sound of church bells trembled up to 
them on the still night air. Gently kissing her 
brow with tender reverence he murmured : 
“ My bride, my sacred treasure ! ” 

She was saved. 


CHAPTER V. 

When General Klinger left the card-room, 
in the act of departure he cast a last hurried 
glance into the ball-room, where the cotilion* 
with its pretty measures and recherche gifts, 
was drawing to a close. 

“ How foolish it is to give a ball in this 
weather ! ” moaned a row of oppressed chape- 
rones. Among them he observed the baroness, 
who, with very disconcerted expression, eye- 
glass to her eye, was looking round the room. 
Siegburg, who, the general knew, was to have 
danced the cotilion with Zinka, was not danc- 


192 


ONE OF US. 


in g. As the general neared him, to ask the 
reason of his defection, he said, quietly, “he 
thought Zinka had felt unwell, and had gone 
home.” 

The manner in which he volunteered it led 
the general to think that he had merely said 
this to cover some unexpected proceeding on 
Zinka’s part. He had seen her last in the pict- 
ure gallery with Sempaly — he hastened off to 
seek her there. Vainly he looked in every 
floral nook. He went into the boudoir beyond ; 
that too was empty, but the door leading into 
the gardens stood open. Mystified, he hastened 
out. 

Without, there reigned an indescribably damp 
oppressive atmosphere. A hopeless sense of 
weariness and of suppressed excitement came 
over him. The sirocco with its deadly oppres- 
sion was brooding over Rome. 

Northerners, who have never been to Rome, 
can form no idea of the nature of the sirocco.' 
Most of them think of it as a hot wind. 

Not so ; it is when the air is sultry but damp, 
and filled with subtle perfume, that the sirocco 
mixes its poison with it. It extracts it from the 
scent of the flowers, which it calls into life 
only to kill ; from the mists of the Tiber, whose 
yellow waves it goldens as they roll over its 
dead bodies and sunken treasures; from the 


ONE OF US. 


193 


mouldy breath of graves, and from the smoke 
of the incense from Roman churches. The 
sirocco tricks the imagination with alluring de- 
ceptions, and fills the heart with an oppressive 
sadness ; it inspires the will to deeds of great- 
ness, and sinks the body in sensuous indolence 
upon soft couches. It penetrates even to cool 
monastic cells. It breathes across the pale 
faces of devout young nuns wrestling in prayer, 
recalling to them old, dear memories. And all 
that is tragic and shameful, and much of what 
is lovely, in Rome is born of the sirocco ; creator 
of exquisite imaginings, and of deeds of horror. 
It almost seems as if since that day when Caesar 
fell under Brutus’s dagger the sirocco and tram- 
ontana had fought their last fight over Rome 
— and the sirocco had remained conqueror ! 

A gray mist clouded the sky, veiling the 
disk of the already waning moon. Dreamily 
flowed the waters of the cascade which falls 
from fountain to fountain down the terraces of 
the Quirinal Hill. Pale sober morning already 
began to disperse the witchery of moonlight 
and of the night. Lights and shadows had 
disappeared. All around was colored as with 
the gray washed-out tones of a half-effaced 
pastel. 

The general cast searching glances down the 


194 


ONE OF US. 


walks, bordered on either side by stiff laurels, 
which ran parallel to the terraces. Majestic 
evergreen oaks, overgrown with ivy and climb- 
ing roses, stood up here and there from among 
the laurels. Ever and anon something white 
would gleam forth from amid the dull green. 
He would hurry toward it to find it was a 
statue or a cluster of flowers. 

Roses and magnolias stretched forth their 
calyxes as if listening. Overpowering every 
other perfume was the scent of orange blos- 
soms in the sirocco-laden air. From time to 
time through the leaves, like a gentle shudder 
or low sigh, a falling flower would glide to 
earth. 

The old general felt as if he could not 
breathe. “Zinka, Sempaly ! ” he cried. 

There was no answer. 

Suddenly he distinguished the sound of a 
low whispering from the famous Sarcophagus 
avenue. He hurried thither. The light of 
early morning fell through an opening in the 
leafy screen. There, upon a bank, sat Zinka 
and Sempaly hand in hand, world-forgetting, 
telling all their love. 

Zinka was the first to perceive the general. 
She was quite unabashed. 

“ Ah, uncle,” said she, u mamma is looking 
for me, is she not ? Please do not scold me.” 


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195 


Good heavens ! the sweet innocent eyes raised 
to his ! Over such purity even the sirocco had 
no power. No; the general could not possibly 
be angry with her — but he ! 

“ Sempaly ! ” he cried, indignantly. “ What 
in the world has possessed you ? ” 

“ I have made up my mind to secure my 
happiness/ ’ he returned, warmly pressing 
Zinka’s hand to his lips as he spoke. “ That 
is all.” 

“ I ought not to have forgiven him so easily, 
ought I ? ” whispered Zinka, lowering her head, 
intimidated by the general’s look of severity. 

“Zinka has been missed. You know how 
evil the world is ! ” cried the general hastily, 
without in the least respecting the sentiment of 
the situation. 

Sempaly interrupted him with impatient 
gesture : 

“I was just on the point of taking Zinka 
back to the ball-room to announce our engage- 
ment to certain of my near friends and rela- 
tions,” he said, meditatively. But the next 
moment he had reconsidered it. 

“No,” he cried, uneasily, “I can’t — no; 
unfortunately, I can’t just yet. I must even 
beg you, Zinka, not to mention a word of our 
engagement to your own people for the pres- 
ent.” 


196 


ONE OF US. 


“ Make haste, Zinka ! ” exclaimed the gen- 
eral dryly, “ my cab is waiting in the piazza. 
If I do not mistake there is a small gate some- 
where here leading out on to it. Right ; here 
it is. I will tell your mother before several 
witnesses that, not feeling well, you went home 
with Lady Julia before the cotillon.” 

When Zinka, in the care of the general’s 
faithful old coachman, had driven off to the 
Palazetto, the two men looked each other in 
the face. 

“Unheard of ! ” exclaimed the general hotly. 

Sempaly fired up. “ You may think as ill of 
me as you choose, but do not cast the shadow 
of an impure suspicion upon Zinka. You know 
that if you hold up a cross before the very devil 
himself his power is gone ! ” 

Without deigning him a reply the general, 
striding past Sempaly, went hurriedly through 
the garden toward the ball-room, and found 
himself in time unperceived to fasten the door 
of the boudoir leading in to the grounds. 
Reaching the ball-room he replied to the bar. 
oness’s breathless inquiries. 

“Zinka felt indisposed after the fall, and 
drove home with Lady Julia Ellis some time 
ago.” This he said in a loud voice, and in 
French, so as to be heard and understood by 
those standing near. 


ONE OF US. 


197 


“She might have let me know ! ” exclaimed 
the baroness, petulantly. 

“We did look for you, baroness, but un- 
fortunately could not find you,” he replied. 

For the first time in his life he had uttered 
a lie. 

The next morning he visited Lady Julia at an 
unearthly hour to initiate her into the mysteries 
of the past night, that she might not, unawares, 
contradict his statement. As he himself had 
escorted Lady Julia to her carriage it all seemed 
plain sailing. As unaccustomed as was the 
general to tying, she yet showed herself most 
ready to confirm his fiction, saying over and 
over again : “Poor, dear child ! I hope it may 
all come right ! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

“Dearest Zinka, my own sweet little wife. 
My brother arrived unexpectedly to-day. He 
is on his way to Australia, and, luckily, only 
intends remaining a few days. But while he is 
here I see nothing for it but to deny myself 


198 


ONE OF US. 


and see as little as possible of you, that he 
may not have the remotest suspicion of our 
engagement. 

“ Shall I confess to you the plain sober rea- 
son which compels me to conceal my happiness 
from him ? In order to kill time during these 
last hateful weeks I have been playing high 
and losing heavily, and am over head and ears 
in debt. My brother will pay my debts, as he 
has done before, as long as my circumstances 
remain normal. 

“But — but — I cannot set it down in black 
and white. Only do not for one instant be- 
lieve that his narrow views can influence me 
against you ; however much I may appear to 
yield to his wishes. Only I consider it unde- 
sirable to arouse his anger just now. But as 
soon as he has sailed, there will remain no 
further obstacle to our making our engage- 
ment publicly known. We then can marry 
immediately. Once done, he will reconcile him- 
self to the fait accompli. If only possible, I 
will come round to the Palazetto some time 
in the course of the evening for a loving 
word and kiss. Till then, imploring your 
implicit silence, I am 

“ Your own devoted, 

“N. S.” 

This letter Zinka received the morning after 


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199 


the ball, as, somewhat later than her usual 
hour, she was breakfasting- with considerably 
renewed appetite in her own room alone. Her 
color chang*ed. Her eyes flashed with indig- 
nant fire. She had borne his coldness and neg- 
lect ; but such a proof of petty feeling, of moral 
cowardice, as that displayed by his letter, low- 
ered him even to meanness in her eyes. Now 
it was to her as if a sudden light was thrown 
upon his character — as if it was some other, 
not himself, she had loved. The Sempaly of 
her love was a proud, god-like hero, who, from 
his lofty height, might allow himself, did fate 
so order it, to break the heart of a poor, simple 
girl, who had been so greatly blessed as to have 
come across his path ; but he was no poor- 
spirited, nervous weakling, content to adopt 
any petty deception from fear of facing an out- 
break of brotherly anger. She was furious. 
All her pride, slumbering in these anguished 
weeks, rose up in arms. Sitting down at once 
to her writing-table, she wrote as follows : 

“ To have married you against your brother’s 
will would have been possible to me, but to do 
so behind his back is a thing to which I could 
never persuade myself. I could brave him, but 
never deceive him. If you do not come to the 
Palazetto I shall know you have made your de- 


200 


ONE OF US. 


cision. Only when I am convinced that I am 
more necessary to your happiness than is your 
brother’s opinion can I hold out my hand to 
you. In the meanwhile, I absolve you from 
every claim I have upon you, and efface from 
my memory every word which in the excitement 
of last night you may have uttered. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ZlNKA StERZL.” 

Having folded and placed this categorical 
epistle in an envelope, Zinka addressed it, and 
ringing for her maid desired her to take the 
note instantly to Palazzo di Venezia. 

“ Am I to wait for an answer ? ” asked the 
maid. 

“No,” replied Zinka curtly. 

Hardly had she left the room than poor Zinka 
grew terribly agitated, almost repenting hav- 
ing written so indignantly. She might still 
have said all that there was in the letter, but 
without taking so hard a tone ! Then reading 
his letter again, she knitted her pretty brows 
and shook her head. Just then her eyes fell 
upon a second note, which had been brought 
her at the same time with Sempaly’s, but had 
hitherto been unnoticed by her. Recognizing 
Truyn’s handwriting, she opened it hurriedly ; 
it contained but few words : 


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201 


“ Dear Zinka — M y poor little Gabrielle has 
grown rapidly worse since last evening. The 
doctor gives but little hope. She is longing for 
you so sorely both when conscious and in her 
delirium. Come, if you can, 

“ Your old friend, 

“ Truyn. 

“P. S. It is nothing of an infectious nature 
— inflammation of the lungs.’ ’ 

Zinka started up — happiness, pain, indigna- 
tion, everything connected with Sempaly was 
forgotten ; she thought onty of the constant 
goodness shown by Truyn to her, and of the 
grief now threatening him. 

“No infectious illness,” she murmured to 
herself. “ Poor fellow ! even now his thought 
is for others — while I— I — ” A flush of shame 
burned in her cheeks, as she remembered that 
evening in Holy Week, when Gabrielle had 
shivered beside her in the carriage ; and she 
had had no thought for her. 

“I had quite lost my head because he had 
spoken a kind word to me,” she said, angry at 
her own weakness. A few minutes later she 
was hurrying breathlessly along the Corso 
toward Piazza di Spagna. Her maid could 
scarce keep up with her. She does not see 
what is going on about her, does not notice any 


202 


ONE OF US. 


one, and, arrived in Piazza di Spagna, nearly 
runs into a group just emerging from the 
Hotel de Londres, then feels her arm touched 
by a soft hand. Looking up, she recognizes 
Nini Jatinsky. 

“ Good morning. Where are you hurrying so 
fast ? ” asks the young countess in friendly voice. 

Zinka returns her greeting hurriedly, ab- 
sently. “ I am hastening to the Hotel de 
l’Europe. Gabrielle Truyn seems to bo very 
ill, and is asking for me.” 

Now Zinka becomes aware of a tall, broad- 
shouldered man of haughty bearing and sun- 
burned face standing by Nini. He looks at 
her with an air of gentlemanly approval, 
and Nini introduces him as Prince Sem- 
paly. Now, too, she sees Nicholas Sempaly 
following with Polyxena. There was a passion- 
ate fire burning in his eyes ; yet he merely 
raises his hat with distant courtesy. Zinka 
gives no thought to his behavior ; the whole 
encounter has made not the slightest impression 
upon her ; her one feeling is that she is being 
detained. 

“ Excuse me, countess,” she says with friend- 
ly smile to Nini, and, quite oblivious of the social 
chasm between them, holding out her hand to 
her. “ Poor Count Truyn is expecting me!” 
and she sped away. 


ONE OF US. 


203 


“ Who is that charming* girl, Nini ! ” asked 
the prince. “Of course you forgot to name 
her to me.” 

“ A Fraulein Sterzl, sister to one of the sec- 
retaries to our Embassy,” replied Him. 

“ Sterzl ? ” returned the prince in some disap- 
pointment. 

“ Zenaide Sterzl,” cried Polyxena, mockingly, 
over her shoulder. 

But the prince pays no heed to the comic 
stress she has laid upon the singular combina- 
tion of the romantic and plebeian in the name. 
Too much the grand seigneur to amuse him- 
self at the expense of lesser folk, he merely 
says : 

“ Sterzl — I know the name — Sterzl — ah ! 
yes ! I served for a time under a Colonel 

Sterzl of the X Lancers. He was a fine 

. fellow.” 

Meanwhile Zinka was hastening on to Hotel 
de V Europe. In the sunny courtyard two large 
rose bushes, one red, one white, were in full 
bloom. Two small, dark-haired little urchins 
in a corner were fencing with sticks. Two En- 
glish families were preparing for some party of 
pleasure in commodious landaus, sending back 
to the hotel for endless things forgotten. One 
of the English girls burst into a merry laugh 


204 


ONE OF US. 


at something that was said. Her companion 
quietly checked her. “ Hush ! ” she mur- 
mured, pointing to a window above, “ re- 
member the poor sick child.” 

An icy chill struck Zinka’s heart ; she hur- 
ried up the well-known stairs. In the draw- 
ing-room Gabrielle’s English governess was 
sitting very upright, very concerned, and very 
helpless. 

“May I go in to see the little invalid?” 
asked Zinka. 

“ Not just now. The doctor is there.” 

At that moment Count Truyn came out of 
the sick room with the celebrated Doctor 

E , the German consulting physician, and 

greeting Zinka sorrowfully, escorted him to his 
carriage. 

On Truyn’s face was that fixed expression 
and dead white hue to be seen on the faces of 
affectionate, unselfish men, who are accustomed 
to fight out their sorrows alone. 

Returning to the drawing-room, he took her 
hand in his. “ The little one has been asking 
for you every minute,” he said, “but ”— shak- 
ing his head as he looked into her moist eyes 
and saw the pale, convulsed face — “ will you 
be able to hide your anxiety from our little 
darling ? ” 

“Trust me,” answered Zinka, bravely wip- 


ONE OF US. 


205 


ing her eyes. A few seconds later she gently 
glided into the sick-room, calm and cheerful as 
a sunbeam. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Some one must either have watched Zinka 
and Sempaly in their moonlight walk, or, de- 
spite the general’s precautions, have gained 
scent of it ; the result being a scurrilous article 
which appeared in a Franco-Roman society 
paper, on the Friday after the ball. 

The article was headed “ A Moonlight Cotil- 
ion.” It began with an exact description of 
Zinka’s person, who was presented under the 

guise of “ Fraulein Z a St 1, sister to one 

of the Secretaries of the Austrian Embassy,” 
mentioned the sensation excited by the said 
young lady as Lady Jane Grey, in the tableaux 
vivants , at Countess Ilsenbergh’s; described her 
as a clever adventuress, one of the professional 
beauties of Rome, and spoke of her unsuccessful 
attempts to win for herself a princely coronet ; 
efforts which had culminated in a moonlight 
escapade at a ball recently given by a leader of 


206 ONE OF US. 

Roman society, tlie audacity of which had ex- 
ceeded all that the chronique scandaleuse of 
Roman fashion had yet known. “ Will her 
companion bestow his coronet upon her ? 
Will High Life shortly have a fashionable 
wedding* to announce ? That is now the ques- 
tion/ * concluded the article. 

High Life — such was the name of the journal 
containing the above-mentioned article — was a 
paper openly scouted by society, patronized 
secretly by a certain portion of it, and though 
spoken of with the greatest horror and indig- 
nation by the majority, yet read by nearly all. 

On that eventful Friday High Life was 
sold out. Before the sun had set, Zinka's name 
was in every one’s mouth. What did Rome 
say to the article ? Lady Julia wept, drank 
tea, and betook herself to her bed. Mr. Ellis 
said “ shocking ! ” assured his wife that he was 
convinced of Zinka’s innocence, and that “it 
would all dry straight.” After which he phleg- 
matically occupied himself with other things, 
and practiced a difficult passage on the concer- 
tina for two hours without a stop. 

The Brauers, already mentioned as country- 
men of the Sterzls, partly in Roman society, 
but who had not received invitations to the 
Brancaleone ball, did their part to spread the 
article, in which good action each had motives 


ONE OF US. 


207 


of their own. Fra Brauer, assuming an air of 
perfidious sympathy, said that the affair was 
very damaging to Zinka’s reputation; although, 
as far as she was concerned, she saw no great 
harm in an innocent little moonlight promenade 
with an intimate friend. Herr Brauer, who 
had received but little notice from the combined 
Sterzl family — the baroness through haughti- 
ness, Zinka and Cecil merely because he was 
such an utterly shallow, pretentious person — 
affirmed, with the most ironical of smiles, that, 
for his part, the “touch-me-not 99 manner of the 
little adventuress, who had pushed her way 
in such barefaced manner into circles to which 
she had no right, had never pleased him. He 
had always thought her conduct unbecoming. 
It must be highly annoying to the Duchess 
Brancaleone that such a scandalous affair 
should have occurred under her roof ; but 
doubtless she would be more careful in future 
in the choice of her guests. Mesdames Fergu- 
son and De Gaudry thought the article amus- 
ingly written, but would not themselves have 
mentioned such an incident for the world ! 
One really would not be safe for a moment 
if such gossip were encouraged; though, cer- 
tainly, in either of their cases, the newspaper 
correspondent would have had to invent, which, 
in Zinka’s case, had evidently not been neces- 


208 


ONE OF US. 


sary. They moreover sent copies of the paper 
to all their friends and acquaintances, with a 
few lines to the effect that the affair proved 
how necessary it was to be guarded about re- 
ceiving total strangers into society. Zinka 
had seemed to them “suspecte ” from the very 
first— “car apres tout, ce n’est pas du vrai 
monde !” 

Princess Vulpini, in whose presence the two 
ladies allowed themselves to make similar im- 
pertinent and slanderous remarks was furious. 
It was in General Klinger’s studio that the} r 
met, society’s favorite resort ; a species of Fo- 
rum where every one gathered when any sub- 
ject of social interest was stirring. 

“I happen to be an Austrian, ladies,” said the 
princess, “ and, therefore, have been brought up 
with ideas of exclusiveness of caste such as you 
can neither conceive nor understand. In every 
respect my feelings are rigidly conservative. 
But Zinka Sterzl is one of Nature’s gentle wo- 
men, one of the elite who form the exception to 
the rule. I should have esteemed it mere folly 
and narrow-mindedness had I, in deference to 
social dogmatism, denied myself the privilege of 
intercourse with one so charming in mind and 
person.” 

“ Exceptions generally come off badly,” mut- 
tered the general. 


ONE OF US. 


209 


Countess Ilsenbergh, who was as punctilious 
in questions of honor as of etiquette, was greatly 
annoyed at the article. She made some severe 
remarks upon the freedom of the press ; and 
expressed her conviction that, whether Zinka 
were innocent or not, things looked ill for Sem- 
paly. 

Count Ilsenbergh developed a surprising 
power of eloquence, and gave a stupendous 
oration upon the social question. “ Our hon- 
ored princess is quite in the right,” said he ; 
“ Fraulein Sterzl is a charming exception ; and 
were society disposed to relax its rules in favor 
of any one, it might well do so for her. But 
our honored general is also right that excep- 
tions are not favored by the world's opinion ; 
and we cannot afford to see the foundations of 
society threatened to their very depths in order 
to lighten the lot of the individual. We dare 
not institute a precedent ! ” He went on to 
enunciate the frightful disorder that must 
ensue from such a mixing up of classes ; re- 
ferred his audience to France in proof of his 
opinions ; and proposed to the consolidation of 
European society, and the steadying of ambi- 
tious spirits, that the introduction of the laws 
of Indian caste should be rigidly carried out 
among them. 

European society had not yet attained to 


210 


ONE OF US. 


the height of perfect exclusivism to which he 
pointed ; and that, therefore, instead of aiming 
at the introduction of laws of Indian caste, 
they would do better to consider the distress- 
ing circumstance before them. He replied 
that the thing was plain. Either High Life 
had lied, and Sempaly had only energetically to 
deny the article, prove an alibi, and give the 
editor a sound horsewhipping; or if, on the con- 
trary, the statement published in High Life 
were a fact, then, under the circumstances, and 
having borne an umblemished reputation hith- 
erto, there remained nothing for Sempaly” — 
here he shrugged his shoulders. 

“But to make Fraulein Sterzl Countess Sem- 
paly ! ” interposed the Gaudry. “ I must say I 
think it rather hard that a young adventuress 
should be rewarded for her unmaidenly conduct 
by a coronet. Oh, I beg your pardon, general, 
I had really quite forgotten that you were a 
friend of the Sterzl family ! ” 

“ And I,” cried the general, who, white 
with anger, had sprung from his seat, his 
voice shaking with indignation, “ by heavens, 
madame, I had quite forgotten that I was 
in the presence of a lady ! ” 

Princess Vulpini here took up the argument. 

“You have told us yourself, countess, that 
from the very first you avoided all intimacy 


ONE OF US. 


211 


with Fraulein Sterzl. Well, since her arrival 
in Rome, I have met her almost daily ; I have 
had opportunity of observing’ her manner with 
young men, have heard her conversation with 
girls of her own age, and I can confidently 
assure you that the word ‘ unmaidenly y applied 
to her behavior is as appropriate as it would be 
to that of my youngest daughter, who is just 
three years old ! And if she really did go out 
into the grounds on the night of the ball with 
my cousin, I am convinced it was merely a 
piece of girlish romance, a proof of such exces- 
sive innocence of feeling that it should, on the 
face of it, have shielded her from all harm. 
This very evening I have been watching with 
Zinka by the sick bed of my little niece, and no 
one, whose soul was clouded by hideous recol- 
lections, could have had such pure eyes, such a 
sweet natural smile, as had she. I would go 
through fire and water to serve her ! ” 

The princess looked so proud, so earnest, so 
queenly as she said these words, she measured 
the Gaudry with such a contemptuous glance, 
that the latter, involuntarily abashed, and mur- 
muring some unintelligible words, hastily beat 
a retreat with her inseparable companion, 
Mrs. Ferguson. The four Austrians remained 
alone. 

“ The one I cannot understand throughout is 


212 


ONE OF US. 


Sempaly,” said the princess. “ No sooner had 
this detestable paper been placed in my hands 
than I sent round for him to his rooms in Pa- 
lazzo Yenezia. The message came back that 
he was out driving with the Jatinskys. I drove 
to Hotel de TEurope to confer with my brother. 
He had just fallen asleep ; I had not the heart 
to wake him ; he could have done no good, and 
why disturb his joy in Gabrielle’s improve- 
ment ? And so I came on to open my heart to 
you, general. ” 

“ Sempaly will not have seen the article yet,” 
suggested Ilsenbergh. 

The princess shrugged her shoulders. Coun- 
tess Ilsenbergh gave vent to a final “ that the 
whole thing was highly unpleasant, and she 
had foreseen it from the first,” whereupon her 
husband manifested such serious intention to 
indulge the company with a second oration that 
his wife hastily rose to withdraw. At that very 
moment Prince Yulpini, his face beaming with 
delight, entered the studio. 

“ Ah, vous voita,” he cried, “ I saw your car- 
riages standing below as I was passing, and ran 
up to give you the news — do you know the very 
latest ? ” 

“ Sempaly engaged to Zinka ! ” cried the 
princess. 

“No, no,” returned the ultra-papal prince. 


ONE OF US. 


213 


“ The wind tore down the Italian flag’ from the 
Quirinal in the night ! Long live the Tramon- 
tana ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A few minutes later the general was left 
alone. For a moment he hesitated ; then, 
seizing his hat, he strode hurriedly along to 
the Palazetto to see how things were going. 
The last to hear of the scurrilous article, he 
was one of those most disturbed by it. Per- 
haps Sempaly had made it all right with 
Zinka, he said to himself as he hurried his 
steps. It was the baroness’s “ at home ” day. 
The frivolous woman was sitting belaced and 
beflowered, one hand clad in a perfectly fitting 
pearl gray glove, the other toying with a dish 
of fondants. 

“ Voita qui est gentil,” she cried, as the gen- 
eral entered. This stereotyped form of wel- 
come fluttered from her thin lips at every arri- 
val, without the slightest change of expression, 
cool and colorless as a snowflake. Hardly had 
he returned the baroness’s greeting than the 


214 


ONE OF US. 


general looked round for Zinl^ without, at 
first, seeing her. 

Only as a cheerful voice exclaimed : “ Here 

I am, uncle. Come and give me a kiss,” did he 
perceive her leaning back in a large armchair, 
in the darkest corner of the room ; she was look- 
ing tired and sleepy, but very happy and lovely. 

“ Oh, uncle, dear, I am so tired — you would 
not believe how tired I am ! ” she exclaimed, 
caressingly nestling her cheek against his hand, 
“ and my cruel mother will have me remain in 
the drawing-room, because it is her day ; and I 
have been fast asleep nearly the whole time in 
my corner, for, fortunately, no one has come. 
I was sitting up last night and the night before 
with Gabrielle, and did not once close my eyes. 
I was so rejoiced that my little darling would 
not take her medicine from any one but me, 
and so rejoiced' when, last night, soothed by 
one of my fairy tales, she fell asleep with her 
head on my shoulder. But then when I had, 
for fear of waking her, to sit for six hours in 
one position without daring to stir, it grew 
agonizing. And to-day I am quite stiff and 
aching.” As she spoke, she stretched her 
slender neck right and left, with a pretty 
weary movement of the shoulders. 

“ You ought to go to bed,” said the general 
with paternal solicitude. 


ONE OF US. 


215 


ff Oh, no. I was lying down this morning. 
Besides, my feeling tired is a secondary matter. 
The great thing is that my little invalid is out 
of danger. Oh ! if anything had happened to 
her ! ” She shuddered. “ I cannot think what 
a grief it would have been. Count Truyn per- 
sists in declaring that the darling’s recovery is 
due to me ; and kissed my hand as gratefully 
when I came away as if I had been a saint. I 
believe I laughed and cried at one and the same 
time, and now my heart is as light — as light as 
a child’s air balloon that has to be held down 
by a thread, that’ it may not fly direct up to 
heaven. But why are you looking so grave, 
uncle ? are you not as glad as I am — ” Here 
the baroness, looking at the clock, began to 
wonder that no one had called that day. “ It 
is plain that you are ‘ no one,’ uncle ; no, only 
my dear, whimsical old friend,” said Zinka with 
her touching, soft laugh. There was an ex- 
traordinary sweet, dreamy grace about her 
to-day. The old man felt his eyes All with 
tears, his heart bleed as he looked at her. 

At that moment a quick heavy tread was 
heard without, the tread of a man bearing a 
heavy sorrow with him ; the door was burst 
open, and with jaundiced face, gasping, foam 
on his lips, Sterzl rushed in, a newspaper in his 
hand. 


216 


ONE OF US. 


“What is the matter? What has hap- 
pened ! ” cried Zinka in great distress. 

Making no answer he looked down at her 
#ith a terrible look. 

“ Is it true that you were in the garden alone 
with Sempaly on the night of the ball ? ” His 
voice rattled in his throat as he spoke. 

“Yes/* she answered trembling. 

He started, staggered ; then, drawing himself 
up, hurled the paper contemptuously at her feet 
— she, his darling, his sunbeam ! “Read it ! ” 
he thundered. 

The old general would have torn the paper 
from her hands, but Sterzl held him back with 
all his force. 

“ Your forbearance is out of place,” he said, 
faintly. “ She can read anything.” 

Zinka read. Suddenly starting up, she ut- 
tered a short, sharp cry. The paper fell from 
her hands. 

The alpha and omega of the whole thing she 
still did not understand — did not take in of what 
she was accused ; only that some hideous, loath- 
some, shameful thing was implied she did under- 
stand. 

“ Cecil,” she cried, revolted, and looked 
straight, with her great, innocent eyes into 
her brother’s — “ Cecil ! ” then covered with 


ONE OF OS. 


217 


both hands her face, which, first deathly white, 
had now grown crimson. 

The unreason of his suspicion was clear to 
him at once; he now bitterly repented his 
violence and roughness. “ Zini, forgive me— I 
was mad, stark mad ! ” he cried, endeavoring 
to fold her in his arms. But she waved him 
off. “ Leave me, leave me!” she groaned. “ I 
cannot forgive you. Oh, Cecil! had all the 
papers in the world said that you had com- 
mitted a dishonorable action, do you think 
that I could have believed it?” 

He humbly sank his head. “ This is some- 
thing different, Zini,” he murmured. “ I do 
not say it to defend myself, but, indeed, it is 
different. You cannot even understand it, be- 
cause you are a child, an angel, my poor, poor 
butterfly ! ” He forcibly drew her to his heart, 
and pressed a sorrowful kiss upon her fair hair ; 
yet her whole bearing was one of strongest re- 
sistance to his tenderness. 

“ What is it all about ? ” the baroness asked 
for the twentieth time. Still receiving no an- 
swer, she at last stooped and picked up the 
paper, which lay unheeded on the floor, and, 
finding the article in question, read a portion 
of it, then broke out into a storm of invective 
against her daughter, bringing up all the mis- 
deeds ever committed by Zinka, and especially 




218 


ONE OF US. 


those of the last few weeks, ending’ up with the 
words : “ I should not wonder if you were to 
ruin Cecil’s whole career ! ” 

“ Silence, mother ! ” commanded Sterzl, im- 
patiently. “Who thinks of my career now. 
It is of our honor we have to think, and of her 
happiness ! ” Then leaning- anxiously over his 
sister, quivering with horror and grief : 
“Speak!” he implored. “Speak, Zini ! Tell 
me exactly how it all happened ! ” 

She had disengaged herself from him. With 
arms crossed upon her bosom, she stood facing 
him. There was something of rigidity in her 
bearing, her voice sounded lifeless and mo- 
notonous as, with innocent conscientiousness, 
blushing and trembling, she told her poor 
little story. 

As she came to an end, Sterzl breathed 
heavily. 

“ And since then have you heard nothing 
from Sempaly ? ” 

“ He wrote to me the next morning.” 

“Zinka — do not be angry with me— show me 
that letter ! ” 

She left the room, and returning, handed 
Sterzl the letter. He read it through gravely, 
and evidently with greatest attention, frowned, 
and asked, as he refolded the letter : “ Did 

you answer him ? ” 


ONE OF US. 


219 


“ Yes,” she answered shortly. 

‘• And what ? ” 

“ Very simply — that I was ready to marry 
him without his brother’s consent ; but deceive 
his brother — I would not ! ” 

In the midst of all his distress, there broke 
a light of fraternal pride in Sterzl’s gloomy 
eyes. 

“ Bravo, Zini ! ” he murmured, “and to this 
he sent you no answer ? ’ ’ 

Zinka had to think back. “No,” she said. 
“ Ah, yes, lie sent me a note to the Hotel de 
l’Europe.” 

.“ And what was in it ? ” 

“ I have not read it yet. It came just when 
Gabrielle was at the worst, and afterward I 
forgot it; but ” — feeling in the pocket of her 
blue serge dress — “ here it is.” 

Sterzl, shaking his head, looked curiously at 
his sister, then opening the letter, read : 

# “My life, my treasure, my sweet, proud, an- 
gry little wife. 

“ Immediately on receiving your wild letter I 
rushed off to see you. The concierge informed 
me you had gone to the bedside of your little 
friend, Gabrielle Truyn. Of course I dare not 
venture to intrude upon you there ; although I 
feel I would, just now especially, give two years 


220 


ONE OF US. 


of my life for a look, a kiss from you. Rather 
than lose you, I will at once break with all and 
everything’. Command, and I will obey. But 
yet, no, I must exercise common sense for us 
both — must at least wait until my affairs have 
been set in order. Forgive me — it cannot be 
otherwise. I Mss your hands and the hem of 
your dress. I feel I am not worthy of you, 
but I love you beyond everything. 

“Sempaly.” 

After having read this very characteristic 
letter, Sterzl paced the room once or twice with 
heavy steps, finally stopped opposite his sister, 
took her hand, and kissing it, said : 

“ Forgive me, Zini. I am proud of you. You 
have acted like an angel ! But he — he is a con- 
temptible scoundrel ! ” 

That she could not bear. 

“ I do not defend him ! ” she cried, with raised 
voice. “ But one thing is certain. He loves and 
understands me. He has never doubted me,* 
and — ” 

She sought in vain for the word she fain 
would have spoken in his favor — she found none. 
Then, with painful effort, mustering all her 
pride, she walked, with head erect, to the 
door. As it closed behind her, her sobs 
were audible. The baroness looked as if she 


ONE OF US. 


221 


were about to follow her. Sterzl barred the 
way. 

“Where are you going ? ” he said, sternly. 

“ To Zinka. I must make it clear to her 
what she has done. Unheard of ! Why, at 
thirteen I was not so deficient in tact.” 

Sterzl smiled very bitterly. 

“That may be, mother,” said he; “yet I 
must absolutely request you to leave Zinka 
alone at present. She is suffering enough 
without that ! ” 

“ Is she to be suffered to continue in her 
stupidity, without my being allowed to repri- 
mand her? ” said the baroness, warmly. 

“Yes, mother,” he said, determinately. “ It 
is not for us to cast reproaches on her. It is 
our part to protect and comfort her.” 

The footman announced that dinner was 
served. 

Sterzl pressed the general to stay and dine 
with them, saying that he had some things to 
discuss with him afterward. He evidently 
wished to avoid dining alone with his mother. 
Before sitting down, he went to Zinka ’s room 
to see if she would not, at any rate, take some 
soup; but came back almost immediately, look- 
ing very distressed. 

“She would not say a word to me,” he mur- 
mured ; “ she is terribly upset.” 


222 


ONE OF US. 


At table he sat silent, eating nothing, drink- 
ing but little ; merely crumbling his bread and 
twisting his table napkin. 

Every time the street door opened he seemed 
to be listening. Dinner was quickly over. 

While they were taking coffee in the draw- 
ing-room, the footman brought in a letter to 
Sterzl, who took it hastily, and not recognizing 
the handwriting, broke the seal. It contained 
nothing but a half sheet of notepaper, upon 
which was a sketch thrown off in a few master- 
ly strokes : Sterzl as auctioneer, the hammer 
in one hand, holding up a little doll in the other; 
before him the coroneted heads of Rome. 

He recognized himself in an instant, and 
although the ungainliness of his figure was 
ridiculously exaggerated, he merely shrugged 
his shoulders as he calmly said, “ Do people 
think that such a thing could annoy me now ? 
Look at it, general ! Sempaly is doubtless the 
author of this work of art.” 

Of course the general would gladly have de- 
stroyed it ere Sterzl had seen the point of it ; 
but before he could carry out his intention, 
Sterzl, looking over his shoulder, tore it out of 
his hands. 

“ There is something written on it,” he said, 
and deciphered in one of the corners, in Sem- 
paly ’s careless illegible handwriting : “ f Mad- 


ONE OF US. 


223 


emoiselle Sterzl for the first, for the second, for 
the third time of asking* ! ’ Ah, now I under- 
stand !” 

The blood rushed to his head. His breath 
came loud and painfully. 

“ Its being* sent here now is a low trick,” 
cried the general. “ Sempaly made the idiotic 
sketch before he had even seen Zinka. I was 
there when he did it.” 

“What matters that?” returned Sterzl; 
“the fact remains the same. So this is the 
way the whole thing was looked upon ? Well, 
well — I suppose they were right. I did think 
that Zinka would make a brilliant marriage. I 
meant well — but — I have brought contempt 
upon us all, and have ruined my sister ! ” 

His excitement increased minute by minute. 
Incessantly he paced up and down, would stop 
suddenly, go up to the open window, listen to 
the sounds without, then resume his pacing up 
and down. “Sempaly is incomprehensible to 
me,” he muttered. “Incomprehensible. I have 
certainly thought him a poor sort of fellow lat- 
terly, but such abominable rascality I did not 
even give him credit for ! What do you think 
of his keeping out of sight to-day, general ?” 

“He simply cannot have seen the paper,” 
suggested the general. “He went out early 
driving with his brother and cousins.” 


224 


ONE OF US. 


“Well! we will suppose him not to have 
seen the paper,” said Sterzl. “All the same, 
it is somewhat remarkable, seeing how things 
stand between himself and Zinka, that he 
should suffer two whole days to pass without 
having made an attempt to see her.” 

The general was silent. 

“ Humph ! you know him better than I do,” 
began Sterzl afresh, after a while, “ and you, 
as my sister related, were present for a short 
space during this romantic moonlight be- 
trothal. * Do you believe that it is his inten- 
tion to marry Zinka ? ” 

“ I know that he is madly in love with her, 
and even the Ilsenberghs, who were talking it 
over with Princess Vulpini this afternoon in 
my studio, do not see, even without reference 
to his feelings, how he can do anything else 
than offer her his hand,” replied the old gen- 
eral evasively. 

“ Yedremo ! ” muttered Sterzl. He looked 
at his watch. “ Half-past nine ! ” he ex- 
claimed, “the thing grows more and more 
inexplicable. I will go round again to Palazzo 
Venezia. His jager may know at any rate 
where he is, and when he is expected back. I 
beg of you, general, to await me here.” Then 
in a low voice, he added, “ and prevent my 
mother from going to Zinka. The child is 


ONE OF US. 


225 


not fit for such agitation,” and he hurried 
away. 

A half an hour later he returned. 

“ Well ? ” asked the general. 

“ He drove off with the prince, Siegburg, 
and the Jatinskys an hour ago to Frascati's,” 
said Sterzl, wearily. “On my asking his 
jager if he was expected back this evening, 
the answer was ‘Yes, certainly, for the count 
leaves Rome at eleven to-morrow morning with 
his highness.’ Yes; he has put off declaring 
his engagement for fear of a scene with his 
brother — he leaves Rome for fear of a scene 
with me. High Life lay open upon his 
table ! ” 

They heard the rustle of a dress ; and looked 
round. Behind them stood Zinka, with hair 
disheveled, and horror-stricken eyes, glazed 
with weeping. 

“ Zinka ! ” cried Sterzl, rushing to her. Her 
eyes grew fixed, she staggered, and fell sense- 
less in his arms. Pressing her fair head caress- 
ingly to his shoulder, he carried her out of the 


room. 


226 


# 

ONE OF US. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Semp axy possessed an excessively nervous 
organization, and highly sensitive ear, and, in 
consequence, cherished the most utter detesta- 
tion of anything approaching a scene, in which 
agitation and high words were inevitable. 
Added to which he had the spoiled child’s habit 
of ever putting off disagreeables as far as pos- 
sible, in the hope that some Deus ex machina 
would eventually make all smooth. 

His affection for Zinka was real ; indeed, ten- 
der and passionate. Ear from decreasing, it 
had rather increased within the last three days. 
If the dreamy and innocent moonlight scene 
with him had temporarily stilled Zinka’s yearn- 
ing, it had, on the contrary, only served to 
heighten his ; if his timid, shifting mode of 
procedure had lowered him in Zinka’s eyes, her 
simple proud bearing toward him had more 
than ever enhanced her charms for him. He 
was enduring tortures ; yet did not suffer his 
state of mind to hinder him from calmly letting 
his good-natured elder brother settle his enor- 


ONE OF US. 


227 


mous debts ; or even, in order to propitiate 
this same noble, generous - hearted brother, 
from continuing, presumably, to pay atten- 
tion to his cousins. 

It must be allowed in his favor that he did 
not do this last so much intentionally, as in- 
stinctively; because, being naturally of an ami- 
able disposition, he could not refrain from doing 
his utmost to create a pleasant atmosphere 
about him, even were it at the cost of his con- 
science. Had he been able to get a talk with 
Zinka during those three days, perhaps things 
might have resulted very differently. With 
his charm of manner he would probably have 
found it easy to reconquer his lost ground ; and 
she possibly might, with her proud sense of 
honor, have influenced him to act differently. 
But he could not disturb Zinka at the bedside 
of her little friend ; and to enter upon a cold- 
blooded explanation with Sterzl was not tempt- 
ing. So he suffered hour after hour to go by, 
until on Friday morning the ill-starred news- 
paper was brought to him in Palazzo Venezia, 
addressed in a disguised handwriting. It threw 
him into the greatest agitation. He was just 
about to tear round to the Palazetto, when he 
remembered that his brother was to come at 
one o’clock to fetch him to Frascati’s. He had 
dipped his pen in the ink to begin a note of 


ONE OF US. 


228 

excuse to the Hotel de Londres, when there 
was a knock at his door; and a full half hour 
before the appointed time his brother came in, 
accompanied by his two cousins. 

“ What an unexpected surprise ! What an 
honor!” exclaimed Sempaly, confused. 

“ So we meant it to be,” laughed Polyxena. 
“ Humph ! rather a strong smell of Turkish 
tobacco, but the ensemble is good.” 

Meanwhile Nini was looking round with her 
shy, gazelle-like eyes. A bachelor’s quarters 
belong to the mysteries which greatly exercise 
a young maiden’s curiosity. 

“ The girls insisted upon coming up to see 
your den,” cried the prince merrily; “so, nolens 
volens, I had to bring them, while Siegburg 
is doing the amiable to their mamma down- 
stairs.” 

“You proposed it yourself, Oscar ! ” cried 
Nini, while Sempaly, with a deep bow, said 
gallantly, “ From this moment these rooms 
are consecrated.” 

High Life was lying upon his writing-table ; 
an iron hand was pressing upon his heart. Had 
his brother only come up alone . . . but with 
the two girls ! . . . The situation was most 
unlucky. 

Xena now began with teasing audacity look- 
ing round among his curiosities, opening his 


ONE OF US. 


229 


books; and, laughingly approaching his writ- 
ing-table, was about to take up High Life. 

“ Halte la!” cried Sempaly, “that is not 
for you, Xena.” 

“ Non toccare,” said the prince, with a 
good-humored laugh. “It is not the thing 
for so young a lady as you to examine too 
closely into the mysteries of a bachelor’s den. 
One might take up a scorpion before one was 
aware. Moreover, we must not keep mamma 
waiting any longer, children. Get ready, 
Nicki.” 

Sempaly thought at first of some subterfuge ; 
then it occurred to him that it really was not 
worth while to embitter Oscar’s last few hours 
in Rome, that the matter could be arranged 
otherwise ; and begging his brother to give him 
a few moments’ grace, did in fact scribble off a 
short note to Sterzl, in which he formally asked 
Zinka’s hand. This note he gave to the con- 
cierge as he went downstairs, with instructions 
to take it up to the Secretary’s Department. 
At first he felt quite satisfied with himself ; but 
the more the afternoon proceeded the more 
painful grew his uneasiness, caused principally 
by the kindly glances directed by his brother to 
himself and Nini. More and more he felt as if 
he were being pressed into a cul de sac. In 
Villa Aldobrandini he attempted a last precau- 


230 


ONE OF US. 


tion. Suddenly finding' himself standing 1 alone 
with Nini by the great fountain, a circumstance 
doubtless attributable to the amiable desire of 
the rest of the party that the young couple 
should have opportunity of a quiet talk with 
each other, he seized this favorable opportunity 
to unburden his heart. Calling her “his sis- 
ter,” he confessed to her his secret betrothal, 
and implored her friendship for his bride. 
Nini, who felt as if a dagger had been plunged 
into her heart, preserved a brave exterior, and 
endeavored, like every true woman, from fear 
of betraying her own feelings, to accord his 
betrothal an approbation she could not truth- 
fully feel. 

He kissed her hand warmly, and did not 
leave her side for the rest of the day. The 
prince, who had observed this secret confer- 
ence between the young couple, smiled know- 
ingly as he confided his suspicions to the 
Countess Jatinsky. 

An affectionate, noble-hearted nature him- 
self, open and clear as the day, he could not 
conceive what a young man should have to con- 
fide at once so secretly and tenderly to a young 
and lovely girl, if not the avowal of his love 
for her. 

The day was drawing to a close. With the 
imprudence common to strangers in Rome, 


ONE OF US. 


231 


they left it very late before they started on the 
homeward drive, not reaching their hotel until 
nearly ten o’clock. 

Here the Nemesis awaited Sempaly. 

At the end of supper, which had been served 
to the little party in Countess Jatinsky’s apart- 
ments, and during which the secret confidences 
between Sempaly and his cousin had been ever 
increasing, the prince, rising with a smile, 
which betrayed the most intense pride in his 
clever powers of observation, seized his glass, 
crying : 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to give you 
the health of our betrothed couple ! ” 

Nini turned crimson; Sempaly very white. 
He had reached the end of his cul de sac. 
Driven against the wall, nothing remained to 
him but to turn and face the enemies he could 
no longer escape. A sudden wild impulse seized 
him with his own hands to tear the loathsome 
mask from his face. 

“What betrothed couple do you mean?” 
he asked. 

“ Come, come, don’t be so mysterious, 
Nicki ! ” exclaimed the prince, affectionately. 
“ Of you and — ” One glance at Countess Nini 
silenced him. 

“Of myself and Fraulein Zinka Sterzl ’ ” 
cried Sempaly fiercely and emphatically. 


232 


ONE OF US. 


The blood rushed to Prince Sempaly’s head. 
For a moment, in his dismayed indignation, he 
lost all power of speech. 

Countess Jatinsky gave a shocked smile; 
Polyxena curled her lips contemptuously ; 
Nini, holding out her hand to the good-for- 
nothing, said, encouragingly : 

“ Your betrothed shall always find a friend 
in me.” 

But now the wrath of the prince broke forth. 
He raved ; he swore that he would never give 
his consent to this ill-advised match ; could not 
conceive how his brother, arrived at man’s 
estate, could have got such a piece of boyish 
folly into his head. 

The ladies discreetly retired. 

Sempaly, whose previously undecided, waver- 
ing temperament had suddenly changed into a 
kind of cold audacity, ordered the waiter to 
bring in the fatal copy of High Life. The 
prince, having read the scandalous article to 
the end, exclaimed : 

“ The world must have come to a pretty pass 
if every man who has been tempted to commit 
imprudences with a pretty adventuress must 
needs pay the penalty of marrying her ! ” 

At the insulting epithet applied to Zinka, 
Sempaly ’s tongue was unloosed. He did not 
spare himself. With most open frankness and 


ONE OF US. 


238 


ready eloquence did he plead Zinka’s cause. 
Selfish, nervous, physically and morally effem- 
inate as he was, he was totally exempt from 
any kind of meanness. Now he could not suf- 
ficiently condemn himself ; it seemed to him as 
if by the invectives he heaped upon himself he 
might be able to undo the evil he had wrought 
in the last few days. He made a clean breast 
of it. How he had loved Zinka from the first 
moment he had seen her ; how he had been on 
the very point of declaring his affection for her 
when accident intervened at the critical mo- 
ment to'check his enthusiasm ; told how he had 
neglected her, how he had sought by constant 
intercourse with his pretty cousins to raise a 
barrier between Zinka and the impulse of his 
heart ; how he had unexpectedly met her again 
at Villa Brancaleone ; and how, as, raising her 
from her fall he held her in his arms, passion, 
like an evil spirit, had come over him. He told 
all — all up to the moment that her head had 
sunk upon his shoulder. “ Before such innocence 
a man can but bend the knee,” he concluded, 
“ and that what I have told you of her is not 
exaggerated, all Rome will vouch ! Ask whom 
you like, Marie Vulpini, Truyn, the Ilsenberghs, 
even — Siegburg here ! ” 

The prince turned to the latter. 

“ I do not quite see my way in this matter,” 


234 


ONE OP US. 


he said. “ Is what he says of the girl true, 
or is he romancing ?” 

Siegburg’s answer was simple, warm and 
clear. It is no easy thing for a young man 
to praise a girl without doing her more harm 
than good. The witness he bore to Zinka was 
a masterpiece of tact and discretion, of quiet, 
enthusiastic esteem. 

The prince’s face clouded more and 
more. 

“ The young lady in question is then the one 
we recently met in the Piazza?’’ he said. 

“ Yes,” returned Sempaly. 

“ Sister to the secretary of legation, whom 
the embassador presented to me yesterday, 
and niece of my old colonel ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ After what you both . tell me, not alone a 
lady of irreproachable character, but also much 
beloved ? ” 

“Yes.” 

The prince was silent for an instant, wrest- 
ling with every fiber in his body for the tradi- 
tions of caste in which he was born and had 
been bred. A union between a Fraulein Sterzl 
and a Sempaly was simply an enormity to him. 
He possessed in the highest degree that rever- 
ence for tradition called by the Count d’Alton- 
Sliee “ le respect des mines” ; but then they 


ONE OF US. 


235 


must be noble ruins, or else they did not impress 
him. 

His head resting* on his hand, he still sat by 
the disordered supper-table, upon which the 
light was sparkling in the half emptied cham- 
pagne glasses, and falling , on the bouquets 
provided for the ladies, and left by them in 
their abrupt departure. Suddenly raising his 
head, and pointing to High Life , he asked : 

“ You had already read this article when we 
came to you in Palazzo Yenezia this morn- 
ing?” 

“Yes.” 

The prince drew himself up. “ And you did 
not remain in Rome to defend the lady ? ” 

His great black eyes looked full into his 
brother’s blue ones. “ You could drive out 
with us — could leave the reputation of this 
girl a prey to all the scandal-mongers of Rome, 
because you feared to come to the unpleasant- 
ness of an explanation— because you feared a 
few angry words from me? You have be- 
haved scandalously in this matter from first 
to last, sir, toward that young lady, and to- 
ward our poor angel in there,” pointing to 
the door, through which the two young coun- 
tesses and their mother had disappeared. “ Of 
course I shall not leave you to starve. Your 
income will be paid to you as heretofore. For 


236 


ONE OF US. 


the rest, all is over between us. We do not 
understand one another, you and I. Go ! ” 


i 


CHAPTER X. 

The expected Deus et machina had not put 
in an appearance. 

The dreaded scene between the brothers, if 
delayed for a few hours, had broken out at 
last, and Sempaly, by his procrastinating*, 
double-faced conduct, had managed not sim- 
ply to excite his brother’s wrath, but, more 
than that, his disdain : while his projected 
marriage with Zinka, when at last he had 
found himself compelled to confess his engage- 
ment to his brother, from the heights of a 
romantic love marriage— a kind of erotic pala- 
dinism — had sunk into that most commonplace 
of unions— a mariage de conscience. 

Full of recollections of the unhappy scene, 
every nerve in him aching from the sleepless 
night that followed upon it ; weary of tossing 
about on his pillow without being able to close 
an eye, Sempaly rose earlier than usual next 


237 


ONE OF US. 

morning’. Disgusted with himself, touched 
and surprised at his brother’s proud magna- 
nimity, thoroughly ashamed at the thought 
of the calumny to which he had subjected 
Zinka through his hesitating silence, he was 
in that intolerable state of overexcitement 
in which one is ready to lay upon the first per- 
son one meets the blame for one’s own wrong- 
doing — to make the first comer suffer the pain 
one’s self is enduring. 

He was pacing up and down his sitting- 
room, part drawing, part smoking-room, wait- 
ing for his breakfast, when the general came in. 

For the first time in his life, he had not a 
pleasant word for his old friend. “ Good- 
morning ! ” he cried. “ To what am I indebted 
for the pleasure of this early visit ? ” 

“ Upon my word ! ” exclaimed the choleric 
old gentleman, with difficulty repressing his 
anger, “ you will hardly wonder that as 
Zinka’s old friend and godfather I have come 
to ask you the reason of your extraordinary 
conduct ! ” 

“ It seems to me that that is rather a 
matter to concern Sterzl,” returned Sempaly 
roughly. 

“ It happens that it is with a view to prevent 
a hostile encounter between you and Sterzl 
that I have taken upon myself to come to you,” 


238 


ONE OF US. 


replied the general, who was certainly more of 
a cavalry officer than a diplomatist. “ Sterzl 
is furious ; and as I know your intentions to- 
ward Zinka to be honorable — ” Here the old 
general’s eyes lighted upon a Gladstone bag, 
such as young men of fashion use for short 
journeys, lying ready packed upon a divan. 
“You are going out of town?” he asked, in 
astonishment. 

“ I was intending to accompany my brother 
to Ostia this morning, returning to-morrow ; 
but nothing will come of it now. I have fallen 
out with him — my good noble-hearted brother. 
He has cast me off forever. Does that satisf}' 
you ? With a stamp of the foot. 

“ And pray, am I to blame for the conduct 
which has brought about this rupture ? ” re- 
turned the general, violently. * 

There was a sharp tap at the door ; and to 
Sempaly’s curt “ Avanti ! ” Sterzl entered. 
Without taking Sempaly’s carelessly out- 
stretched hand, he drew a newspaper from 
his pocket, spread it out before Sempaly, and 
asked bluntly : 

“ Have you read this article ? ” 

“Yes,” muttered Sempaly savagely between 
his teeth. 

“Yesterday — before you started ? ” contin- 
ued Sterzl. 


ONE OF US. 


239 


This almost word-for-word repetition of his 
brother’s questioning aroused in Sempaly the 
unpleasant and humiliating recollections of the 
events of the night before. 

His eyes flashing angrily, he remained si- 
lent. 

Sterzl could contain himself no longer. All 
the bitterness he had endured in the past six 
weeks rushed over him ; suddenly his eyes, too, 
fell upon the unlucky traveling bag, and he 
lost the last remnant of his self-control. 

What followed ? 

Like lightning something flashed past the 
general ; unexpected, irrevocable, Sterzl taking 
a step forward, had flung the calumniating 
paper full in Sempaly’s face. At that moment 
Sempaly’s man entered with his breakfast tray. 
A few minutes later Sterzl and the general, in 
death-like silence, and not looking at one an- 
other, descended the stone staircase of Palazzo 
Venezia. 

Once in the piazza the young diplomatist 
paused for a second, and drew a deep breath. 

“Sempaly will send his seconds round to me 
in the course of the morning. May I request 
you to represent me, general ? ” 

The general nodded silent assent. 

“ I will let Crespigny know, too,” he contin- 
ued, “then act as 3 r ou both think best.” 


240 


ONE OF US. 


The general made no reply. His silence irri- 
tated Sterzl. 

“ By Heavens! I could bear it no longer/’ 
he murmured feverishly. “You think I was 
too violent — ” 

They had reached the Corso. Siegburg 
strolled up to them, gay, insouciant as ever, 
his hat carelessly set on the back of his head. 

“ Glad to be the first to congratulate you, 
Sterzl ! ” he cried. 

“ Upon what ? ”• returned Sterzl. 

“ Why, upon your sister’s betrothal to Sem- 
paly. Do you mean to say you have not yet 
heard of it ? ” 

Sterzl could stand it no longer. 

“ What the devil are you talking of ? I do 
not understand you,” he stammered. 

“What ! you do not know ? ” said Siegburg. 
“ Last night the cat was let out of the bag — 
Nicki announced his engagement to us. Oscar, 
to whom it was all new — but come along with 
me into this cafe, and I will tell you all about 
it. It’s not well to be talking of such things in 
the open.” 

“ I — I have no time,” murmured Sterzl, with 
fixed, dulled eyes ; and he strode hurriedly past 
Siegburg, staggering as he walked, and jost- 
ling against the passers-by. 

“What’s up ? ” said Siegburg, looking after 


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241 


him. “ I thought to give him pleasure, and, 
by Jove ! One never seems to get to the bot- 
tom of folks. This betrothal will make a pretty 
stir in Vienna, eh, general ? But I agree with 
it — perfectly agree with it. We stand upon the 
threshold of a new era — as Schiller — or who was 
it ? — most likely Bismarck — said, and shall be 
able to tell our children that we have witnessed 
it. But what on earth is the matter with you 
two — you and Sterzl ? Good Heavens ! You 
just came out of Palazzo Venezia. Could Nicki 
and Sterzl, through some misunderstanding, 
have — ” 

The general dryly assented. 

“ Oh, never fear, that will all be settled ami- 
cably !” exclaimed Siegburg, consolingly. 


242 


ONE OF US. 


CHAPTER XL 


On Sterzl ’s return to the Palazetto, he found 
Sempaly’s before-mentioned letter awaiting him. 
The concierge, according to the count’s instruc- 
tions, had taken it to the secretarial depart- 
ment. As Sterzl, however, had not been there 
at all the previous day, it had remained un- 
opened, and had only been brought round to 
the Palazetto by one of the embassy messen- 
gers that morning. 

After reading it, Sterzl covered his face with 
his hands. 

A little later Sempaly’s two seconds, Sieg- 
burg and the Russian military attache, pre- 
sented themselves. 

No; no amicable settlement was possible. 
Th q point d’honneur, under the circumstances, 
allowed of no friendly intervention. What is 
this point d’honneur ? A social conventional- 
ity belonging to the fashionable world — the 
religion of chivalry ! 

Sterzl Was due to start that night by the 


ONE OF US. 


243 


eleven o’clock express for Vienna on diplomatic 
affairs, before his final departure for Constan- 
tinople. The duel therefore must come off that 
very da} r . With the exception of appointing 
the time, Sterzl left all arrang-ements to his 
two seconds, Klinger and Crespigny. 

Swords — seven o’clock at the church ruins, 
opposite the Metella Memorial, was agreed 
upon. A little after six the three men, Sterzl 
and his two seconds, set out. Through the 
close, dark streets leading to the Forum rolls 
the carriage, past the foot of the Palatine, 
skirting the Coliseum, through the Constantine 
Archway into the Via Appia, ever further be- 
tween gray-green shimmering walls over which 
brown ruins and tall black cypresses are vis- 
ible. 

Now the walls disappear, thick green hedges 
overgrown with luxuriant creepers border the 
road on either side. With their heavy sickly 
smell, their wealth of poisonous orchid and as- 
phodel blossoms, with which, like a delirious 
fever dream, each successive spring-time over- 
spreads its monotonous barrenness, the Cam- 
pa gna opens its green 4 carpet over the plain. 

Sterzl sat silently facing his seconds, his 
back to the horses. He did not attempt to af- 
fect a careless demeanor. A truly courageous 
man may often face death with indifference. 


244 


ONE OF US. 


never with levity. Death is ever a master, to 
whom reverence is due ! 

Something was weighing upon him. But his 
two companions, who knew, not only his char- 
acter, hut also the circumstances attending the 
duel, were well aware that this something was 
not anxiety about his own fate. 

No. The misery brought about finally by 
his own unrestrained violence, by his want of 
self-command, was ever before him. That this 
betrothal, forced on by a series of surprises and 
accidents, could not possibly have resulted in 
a happy marriage, he did not consider. Sem- 
paly’s faults he had clean forgotten. One 
thing alone he knew ; that his sister might 
have had the wish of her heart, and that he, 
and he alone , had been the one to rob her of it \ 

A wondrous scent exhaled from out the or- 
chids, the blossoming hedges and the tender 
foliage of the trees, like the fair spirit of spring, 
bringing with it sweet memories of childhood 
to the silent, brooding man. He thought of 
the great neglected orchard in Alinkau ; of a 
May morning he had spent there before he en- 
tered the Theresianum. The old apple-trees 
had donned their pinkest garb. Butterflies 
fluttered through the air, and the first forget- 
me-nots were peeping through the brambles on 
the bank of the stream that with sleepy mur- 


ONE OF US. 


245 


mur, under stunted willows, ran through the 
orchard. The scent of earth, trees, flowers 
was like this of to-day ; and Zinka, then a tiny 
baby tripping up to Cecil, had said, with im- 
portant confidential air : “ Do you know the 

good God has left the gate of heaven open 
again ; that's why it all smells so sweet ! ” 

She was wearing a little white pinafore, and 
had long golden hair, and held fast so lovingly 
to her big brother -with her tender, helpless 
little fingers. And he, lifting her up in his 
arms, answered : “ Yes, Zini, the good God 

has left heaven’s gate open ; and you have 
slipped out, my little angel ! ” Oh, the great 
puzzled eyes with which she looked at him ! 

She had ever been his darling. On his death- 
bed his dear father had committed her to his 
care. And now “ Poor little butterfly ! ” he 
murmured half aloud. 

“ Do not be too considerate of your adver- 
sary,” a deep, manly voice called out to him. 
It was Crespigny, who aroused him from his 
dreams of home and early days. “ Do not be 
too considerate of him,” he repeated. “You 
have everything in your favor ; practice, skill, 
and muscular strength. But Sempaly — I know 
his art of fencing thoroughly— has one uncom- 
monly dangerous peculiarity — you can never 
know what he’s after.” 


246 


ONE OF US. 


Sterzl glanced back over bis shoulder. Be- 
fore him rose the Metella Memorial — their 
destination. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Opposite the Metella Memorial, in all its 
heathen grandeur and mediaeval fortification, 
stands a half-rumed, entirely deserted, primi- 
tive Gothic church, the roof of which is formed 
by the blue sky above. A weatherbeaten cross 
let into the now crumbling stone work of the 
doorway points to the little church having be- 
longed to the early Christian period. Opposite 
the entrance an arch, still in good preservation, 
shows where stood the altar. Xo vestige of 
the remains or bass-relief ornamentation of any 
kind is to be seen ; only ferns, tender emerald- 
green maiden-hair, nestle at the foot of the 
gray old walls. The ground even, as if laid with 
a parquetrie floor, is covered with fine turf, from 
out which, in spring, peep thousands of crim- 
son-tipped daisies, looking smilingly up to the 
blue sky above ; faint-smelling nettles grow 


ONE OF US. 


247 


rankly in the corners and along the foot of the 
walls. 

The adversary’s party were already there 
when Sterzl and his seconds arrived ; Sempaly, 
chatting calmly, hut without any pretense of 
levity, with the Russian military attache, 
greeted the other side with grave courtesy. 
His hearing was perfect. With all his capri- 
cious versatility of character and nervous sen- 
sibility, he possessed at the right moment, 
and in no slight degree, that indomitable self- 
possession of the man of the world which en- 
ables him to look upon fighting a duel, when 
occasion requires, with the same imperturba- 
bility of spirit as that with which, at another 
time, he would raise his hat. 

Seigburg alone seemed agitated ; the others 
were composure itself. 

The seconds made a careful examination that 
no one was watching their movements. A 
death-like stillness reigned. Recently devas- 
tated by fever, the Yigna, which stretched at 
the back of the church, was uninhabited. For- 
malities were hastily exchanged. Sempaly 
and Sterzl, removing their coats, took their 
places on the spots marked by their seconds. 

The signal was given, and at the instant 
was heard the “ click ” of steel meeting 
steel. 


248 


ONE OF US. 


Whoever has gone through the excitement 
of a slowly impending, inevitable danger, will 
recall how, when the dreaded climax has ar- 
rived, their nerve tension has suddenly relaxed, 
their agitation has ceased, their very dread has 
fled, and their whole mental attitude has been 
one of breathless concentrated curiosity. 

So it was with Seigburg and the general, as 
they followed the duel with wellnigh impassive 
attention. 

Sempaly had made the first thrust, and a 
sharp one. Sterzl kept studiously on the de- 
fensive. He had the German method of oc- 
casionally following up a thrust with his whole 
strength, which, with his otherwise great pro- 
ficiency, gave him a terrible advantage over a 
physically weaker adversary. The knowledge 
of his superiority seemed at first to cripple 
him. From a purely technical point of view 
the duel was an unusual^ interesting one, Sem- 
paly developing a marvelous, and, as Cres- 
pigny expressed it, unaccountable dexterity, 
met by SterzPs iron calm. The latter was 
evidently reckoning upon tiring out his adver- 
sary, and then ending the duel by slightly 
wounding him. He gave Sempaly a cut in 
the shoulder; but Sempaly would not let 
the wound count ; it was nothing, he de- 
clared. 


ONE OF US. 


249 


After a short respite, the duel recommenced. 
Sempaly began to look pale and exhausted ; his 
movements became short, sharp and violent. 
Sterzl’s face, on the contrary, grew more ani- 
mated. Like every enthusiastic swordsman in 
a prolonged engagement, he had warmed to his 
work, and was now fighting as if in a fencing 
bout, without heeding the consequences of his 
thrusts. 

The outlook was bad for Sempaly. Suddenly 
through the stillness rang out in the far dis- 
tance in a boy’s thin soprano : 


“ Vieni Maggio ; vieni primavera.” 

The thought flashed across Sterzl of that 
evening when Zinka had sung those words to 
Sempaly. The romance dormant in his nat- 
ure awakened within him. He lost his head. 
Fearing to harm Sempaly, he forgot to defend 
himself, and, all at once awkward, as if he had 
never held sword in his hand, left himself ut- 
terly unguarded. 

The seconds were about to step in. Too 
late ! 

With the scarce audible sound of sharp steel 
entering flesh, Sempaly’s sword had penetrated 
his adversary’s side. Sterzl’s flannel shirt was 
instantaneously dyed with blood, his eyes be- 


250 


ONE OF US. 


came fixed, his weapon fell from his hand, he 
made one, two steps forward, then fell uncon- 
scious to the ground. 

The duel was over. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A quarter of an hour later a temporary 
bandage had been applied, and in the now closed 
landau, the cushions arranged as comfortably as 
possible to form a couch for the wounded man, 
the general and the surgeon drove slowly back 
to Rome with their unconscious burden. 

Twilight had descended over the Campagna. 
From time to time the general cast an anxious 
look to see how far the} 7 still were from the city. 
More and more lonely and melancholy grew the 
road. Once a cart filled with boisterous peas- 
ants from the Campagna rattled by them ; a 
little farther on two wh'ite-clad monks with red 
flickering torches in their hands were standing 
at the porch of a church ; after that the road 
was deserted. Pitch black towered the cypresses 
against the pale evening sky ; over the Cam- 


ONE OF US. 


251 


pagna spread a gray haze. They passed under 
the Constantine Arch. The horse’s hoofs 
sounded noisily upon the paved roads. 

Slowly — slowly. 

The sleep3 r street lanterns of Rome flicker in 
the pale twilight. They have reached the 
Corso. It is the hour when, almost deserted by 
carriages, it is filled to overflowing with loung- 
ers. A garish light streams out from number- 
less cafes. The closed landau, going at such 
slow pace, attracts attention. Loungers draw 
together in groups to gaze and whisper after it. 
Reaching the Palazetto, they turn into the 
court-yard, the surgeon and general alight. 
The concierge comes out of his lodge ; his dog, 
recognizing the general, jumps round him, 
barking. 

“ Quiet ! ” says the general, “ quiet ! ” 

Servants hurry down the steps ; the women 
sob, once more the general, but in more com- 
manding, impressive manner, orders “ Silence, 
silence ! ” as though it were of importance that 
Zinka should remain in ignorance for yet an- 
other moment of the dread catastrophe. 

With difficulty they bear the heavy body up 
the steps ; their slow, stumbling tread echoing 
through the silence. 

Suddenly they hear Zinka’s anxious voice, 
then the baroness’s angry reprimand ; a door 


252 


ONE OF US. 


is wrenched open, and Zinka rushes toward 
them. 

A groaning, half stifled cry issues from her 
breast — the cry of one struggling to awaken 
from some evil dream ! 

Mournfully they signed the women away and 
carried him to his room. While they were still 
busying themselves about his bed, a footman 

ushered Dr. E , the before named, eminent 

German physician, into the sick room. Sem- 
paly, who, driving fast, had reached Rome a 
full hour sooner than the general with his 
wounded patient, having sent him. With con- 
summate care the great physician examined the 
wound, adjusting the bandage with his well- 
known skill, wrote a prescription, and ordered 
ice applications. Then sympathetically pressing 
the hands of the two women so anxiously await- 
ing his verdict outside the door, assured them, 
with the benevolent, encouraging smile that 
had acquired him half his splendid practice, 
that the patient would pass a quiet night. 

The smile, however, vanished as he turned to 
the general, accompanying him downstairs. 

“ Is the wound dangerous ? ” asked the old 
soldier, with beating heart. 

Dr. E shook his head. “ Are you a 

relative of the patient ? 5 7 he asked. 


ONE OF US. 


253 


“ No ; but a very old friend.” 

“ The wound is mortal,” said Dr. E . “ I 

may be mistaken — I may be mistaken. Nat- 
ure sometimes does wonders, and the patient 
has a splendid constitution. What muscular 
development ! I have seldom seen the like. 
But as far as human foresight goes, he is — ” 
and he made a gesture, plainly denoting SterzTs 
death warrant. 4S It is always a comfort to the 
survivors to know that all that is humanly 
possible has been done to ward off the catas- 
trophe,” he continued. “I will come early to- 
morrow morning to see how he goes on. Send 
the prescription to the chemist of the French 
embassy. He is the best. Good-night.” 

With these words he stepped into his car- 
riage. 

The general gave the prescription to the con- 
cierge. With Italian willingness and disregard 
for appearances the man rushed off without 
his hat to have it made up. As if it needed 
haste ! 

With painful effort of self-command the old 
soldier went back to the sick room. Zinka, pale 
and tearless, trembling with anxiety, stood, al- 
most humbly, at the foot of the bed. The bar- 
oness, walking up and down, was sobbing, 
wringing her hands alternately, and pushing 
back the hair from her temples. She, of course, 


254 


ONE OF US. 


besieged the general with questions upon the 
doctor’s diagnosis. His evasive answers sufficed 
to fill her with unreasoning hope, and to re- 
awaken in her the worldliness which fear for 
her son’s life had for an instant dispelled. 

“ Yes, yes. He will have a quiet night/’ she 
whimpered. “ It will all come right. It would 
be such a pity with his brilliant career ; but all 
chance of Constantinople is at an end.” 

Zinka had grown still whiter at the general’s 
words; but she remained silent. 

That a duel had taken place, she, as well as 
her mother, had guessed. What conclusions 
did she draw ? what was she thinking ? what 
feeling ? She was never able to tell. Her soul 
was a blank ; her heart turned to ice ; her 
whole being absorbed in one immeasurable 
feeling of terror. 

By dint of long, earnest, skillful persuasion 
T-he general succeeded in inducing the baroness 
to leave her son’s room and lie down for a little, 

to husband her strength for the sick room.” 

Hardly had the door closed upon her than 
Sterzl’s man, entering softly, announced Count 
Truyri. 

At his name Zinka raised her head. The 
general hastened toward him. 

“ May I come in?” lie asked. 

Zinka nodded assent. 


ONE OF US. 


255 


Told the news by Siegburg, Count Truyn had 
hastened off at this late hour to the Palazetto. 
Silently he went up to Zinka. The quiet, affec- 
tionate manner in which he held both her hands 
in his, without saying a word ; the deep sym- 
pathy and intense grief at being powerless to 
help her that spoke in his eyes, warmed her to 
the heart. The numbness that had crept over 
her whole being began to yield. Tears rushed 
to her eyes, her lips trembled ; then, with pain- 
ful effort to restrain her sobs, she murmured, 
scarce intelligibly, “ There is no hope! No 
hope ! ! ” 

His mother’s unrestrained laments had not 
disturbed the dying man ; the first half-stifled 
moan that escaped from Zinka’s lips roused 
him. His limbs began to twitch uneasily, 
slowly he opened his large eyes, the whites of 
which shone dark as polished silver, and raised 
them to his sister’s face. From her his glance 
fell wearily and haltingly upon a cloth stained 
with blood, which they had forgotten to re- 
move, then upon the general. Slowly, pain- 
fully he seemed to be putting things together 
in his mind. He struggled for breath ; made 
impatient gestures with hands and shoulders. 
Then a strong convulsive movement shook his 
whole body. Consciousness had returned ; he 
drew a deep breath. 


256 


ONE OF US. 


His first thought was of his official duties. 

“ Have you informed his excellency ? ” he 
asked the general, almost violently. 

“ No, not yet.” 

“ Then lose no time, I pray you — a telegram 
must be sent to Vienna.” 

“All right — all right,” returned the general 
soothingly. “ I will see to it at once. Will 
you be so kind as to stay here until I come 
back?” he asked Truyn, as he hurried out. 

For an instant noiseless silence prevailed ; 
then Sterzl began in a low voice : 

“ Do you know how it happened, Count 
Truyn ? ” 

Truyn bowed his head. 

“And you, Zini !” asked Sterzl, raising his 
sad eyes to the girl’s white face. 

“I know that you are suffering,” she made 
answer ; “ that is enough for me ! ” 

“Oh, Zini!” 

The wounded man, gasping for breath, 
stretched out his hand to his sister, and said 
in a hoarse, scarce intelligible voice, “ Zini — 
Butterfly — it was all my fault — I have spoiled 
all your happiness — I alone.” 

She tried to restrain him. “Do not excite 
your dear self,” she whispered, leaning lov- 
ingly over him. “Let it all rest until you are 
better. I know how you love me, and that 


257 


ONE OF US. 

you would get me down the very stars from 
heaven if you could only reach them ! ” 

A distressing agitation came over him. 

“No, Zini, no. You might have had the 
stars,” he uttered in a kind, hollow, breathless 
staccato, “ the planets themselves — Sempaly 
was not in fault — I only — the prince had con- 
sented — but — I was mad — I forgot myself — 
and all was done for ! — Give me a drop of 
water, Zini, I am parched — ” 

She gave him the water, he drank eagerly. 
Then, motioning away the hand with which she 
would have gently closed his lips, he continued 
excitedly, but in a weak voice : “I must tell 
you— or my heart will break. There in my 
secretary, count, in the little drawer to the 
left — there is a letter for Zinka — give it to 
her ! ” 

Count Truyn did as he wished. The letter 
was sealed and addressed in Sterzl s distinct 
handwriting to his sister. She broke open the 
envelope. It contained the letter written by 
Sempaly before his expedition to Frascati. 
Sterzl had added a few explanatory words in 
case it should fall into Zinka’s hands after his 
death. Anxiously the dying man watched the 
expression of her face as she read ; it did not 
change in the slightest degree. Sempaly ’s 
words glided over her heart without for an in- 


258 


ONE OF US. 


stant touching it. After reading it she was 
silent, two red spots burning upon her white 
cheeks. 

I received — that letter — too late,” said 
Sterzl despairingly. “ The general — will tell 
you — how it all — came about. I lost my head, 
but I — was careful to spare him ! So forgive, 
Zini — and act — as if I had — never been. Then 
I shall rest — quietly in my grave — when I know 
— that you are happy ! ” 

She was still silent; her eyes had grown 
dark. But it was not grief for her lost happi- 
ness that glowed in them. Suddenly she tore 
the letter in two, and let the pieces fall to the 
ground : 

“ Had he written ten letters,” she said, “it 
would have made no difference. Do not vex 
your dear self, Cecil. It is past ! Had there 
never been any obstacle between him and me 
I could not be his wife now. I love him no 
longer. He seems to me so poor and mean- 
spirited compared with you ! ” 


ONE OF US. 


259 


CHAPTER XIV. 

All discord was over between brother and 
sister ; their differences were healed. 

For another four-and-twenty hours he 
wrestled with death, Zinka never leaving* his 
side. The consciousness of their mutual devo- 
tion seemed to blend a mournful comfort with 
the great pain of their parting. The physical 
suffering he endured was terrible, especially 
during the first night and the following morn- 
ing. Yet he bore his intense suffering with the 
greatest heroism ; only from the slight twitch- 
ing of his hands or the involuntary contortion 
of his features could they even be guessed at. 
Nearly the whole time he retained his con- 
sciousness. 

He refused to take Dr. E ’s soothing opi- 

ates. He wanted to “keep his head ” as long 
as possible. 

When Zinka, with tenderest circumlocution, 
entreated him to take the last sacrament he 
yielded to her wish. 

“If it comforts you, Butterfly/ ’ he whis- 
pered, scarce audibly ; and received the priest 


260 


ONE OF US. 


with due reverence and perfect self-control. 
In the afternoon he was somewhat easier. 
Zinka began to feel a shade of hope. 

“You are better, ” she asked imploringly, 
“you are better, are you not ? ” 

“ I am in much less pain,” he replied. 

Then she began to make plans for the future. 
He smiled sadly. 

It was impossible for a man to die more 
nobly. And death was hard to him ! 

The expressions of sympathy at the sad fate 
which had befallen him were general. Like 
wildfire the news of the terrible catastrophe 
had spread through the whole city. Society 
was seized with a species of panic. That day 
there was not a person who had allowed him or 
herself to speak a light word against Sterzl or 
his sister, who did not bitterly repent it. Not a 
person who did not come individually, or send, 
to make inquiries at the Palazetto. 

From time to time the baroness would tri- 
umphantly bring a visiting card, turned down 
at the corners, to the sick bed and say, “ So- 
and-so has just called personally to inquire after 
you.” 

In the late afternoon he sank into an uneasy 
slumber. Zinka and the general did not stir 
from his bedside. The windows were open, yet 
the air which came in through the Venetian 


ONE OF US. 


261 


blinds was close and oppressive. Straw was 
laid down before the house ; the roll of carriage 
wheels in the Corso came up with subdued, dead- 
ened sound to the dying man’s room. Twilight 
had set in ; the sound of wheels had ceased. 

Suddenly the slow, uneven footsteps of a great 
throng of people, accompanied by the sound of 
many voices chanting a dismal, horror-inspiring 
dirge broke upon the evening stillness. 

Zinka sprang up to close the windows. Too 
late ! The sick man, wearily opening his eyes, 
had heard it : “ A funeral ! ” he murmured. 

From that time he became more restless. 
The agony of his wound began to torment him 
afresh. He clutched at the sheets ; tossed his 
head from side to side incessantly ; spoke about 
his will, begging the general to note certain 
slight alterations he wanted made in it ; and on 
Zinka’s imploring : “ Not now, darling. Leave 
it for another time,” he shook his head, mur- 
muring with faint voice, inaudible from pain, 
“I am in haste — in haste — railway fever.” 

Then, as Zinka, unable longer to repress her 
tears, was hastening out to hide them, he held 
her back: 

“Stay here, old lady — stay, Zini,” he said. 
“Cry, darling, if it eases your heart — cry, my 
precious ! Poor little butterfly ! you will miss 
me a little, after atf 1 ” 


262 


ONE OF US. 


Once only did his composure quite forsake 
him. He had entreated them to send to Palazzo 
Venezia for an English newspaper containing 
intelligence upon a political question that was 
greatly interesting him. 

His excellency brought round the paper 
himself ; and, greatly grieved, went to his 
bedside. 

“ How are you — how are you, my dear fel- 
low ? You were right, Sterzl. Ignatieff has 
positively — Astonishing what power of far-see- 
ing you have. I shall miss you tremendously 
when you go to Constanti — .” He could say 
no more. A painful pause ensued. 

“ It is a longer journey than to Constanti- 
nople/’ murmured Sterzl, at length. “I won- 
der who will fill my place ? ” His voice failed 
him, and he buried his face, with a groan, in 
his pillows. 

Toward midnight the death agony began. 

Dr. E had warned the general that it 

would be terrible. In vain they endeavored 
to persuade Zinka to leave the room. In vain ! 
The whole night long she knelt by the dying 
man’s bedside, praying. 

At five in the morning the rattling in the 
throat ceased. It seemed as though all was 
over. Then, suddenly, the dying man began to 
utter a few disconnected words. In his eyes 


ONE OF US. 


263 


was to be seen the far-away look to be seen in 
those of the dying*. 

“ Do not cry, dear child,” he breathed. “All 
will yet be well.” Then with effort, feeling 
about with his hands, as though searching for 
the thought his brain could no longer retain, 
his eyes turned for a last time on his sister. 
“Go, lie down and rest, Zini,” he uttered, 
inaudibly. “ I am better — am sleepy — Con- 
stantino — ” 

He turned his face to the wall, drew a long 
deep breath, and it was over. He had entered 
upon his journey. 

The general closed his eyes, and led Zinka 
away. 

Out in the corridor stood a bowed figure. 
It was Sempaly. 

Tormented by grief and repentance he had 
stolen into the Palazetto ; and stood there, 
pale and troubled, with trembling hands and 
staring eyes. 

She did not shrink away from him ; she 
passed him by. She did not even see him ! 

The glorious light of a Southern morning lay 
warm and golden upon the courtyard and its 
colonnades. In a dark corner, whose shade 
was black in contrast with the surrounding 
brilliancy, fluttered a host of bright blue but- 


264 


ONE OF US. 


terflies, like a strip of azure sky torn into a 
thousand shreds. 

It was the corner where the figure of the 
Amazon stood ! 


CHAPTER XV. 

Thanks to Siegburg’s, as ever, thoughtful in- 
discretion, all Rome quickly was in possession 
of the fact that Prince Sempaly, the night be- 
fore the duel, had given his consent to his 
brother’s marriage with Fraulein Sterzl. They 
knew too of SterzFs outbreak of rage ; and of 
his atonement, out of all proportion to his 
fault. Princess Vulpini’s steady friendship for 
Zinka, which never for one instant flagged, had 
stopped evil tongues and saved her reputation. 
There was a tremendous rebound in favor of 
the Sterzls throughout society. It became 
bad taste, little minded, even mauvais genre , 
to throw suspicion upon Zinka. Both she and 
her brother were now considered des gens tout 
a fait exceptionnels ! 

The dead man had desired to be buried in his 


ONE OF US. 


265 


native country. His body was embalmed, and 
lay in state in a vast, empty apartment in 
which the baroness at one time had intended 
to give a ball. Flowers bedecked the walls, the 
floor and the coffin. It was a perfect Roman 
infiorata. The windows were darkened with 
heavy hangings; the soft, reddish flame of 
hundreds of immense wax candies flickered in 
the vast apartment. 

Countess Ilsenbergh and the Jatinskys were 
present at the consecration. Quite a crush of 
the most distinguished members of Roman so- 
ciety, attired in mourning, gathered round the 
bier. Never had one of the baroness’s “ at 
homes” been so frequented. One could read 
in her silly little face the ill-placed exultation 
she was experiencing, as she stood by her son’s 
coffin clad in a dress of soft, flowing material, 
heavily trimmed with crape, two effective tears 
stealing down her cheeks, a black-bordered 
handkerchief in her hand, and — received. 

People pressed her hand, uttering words of 
sympathy, and she whispered, This does me 
good.” 

Then, having settled the mother, they looked 
round for the sister, feeling that they would 
gladly show, at least, how sincerely they were 
sympathizing in her great sorrow. At first 
they could see her nowhere ; when, at last, one 


266 


ONE OF US. 


of the ladies whispered, half-frightened, “ There 
she is,” and all eyes turned to the dark corner 
where Princess Yulpini was bending with unaf- 
fected motherly solicitude over the poor white, 
quivering, utterly prostrate girl ; but none had 
the courage to approach her. Only Countess 
Nini, who -looked almost as wretched as Zinka 
herself, going up to her, put her arms about 
her and kissed her. 

Next morning mass was read in San Marco, 
close by the Embassy Palace. A quartet of 
men’s voices singing the sweet touching Alle- 
gretto from the Seventh Symphony, that but 
three short months before had been sung at 
the Lady Jane Grey tableau. 

A week later Baroness Sterzl and her daugh- 
ter left Rome. Up to the last the baroness 
received visits of condolence, never failing to 
repeat to each comer her monotonous formula 
of grief, “ a career of such brilliant prom- 
ise ! ” 

Zinka never appeared in the drawing-room, 
and but few ventured to seek her in her little 
boudoir. Worn to a shadow, wdth sharpened 
features and eyes dim with weeping, she looked 
most piteous ; seeming, after the violence of 
her first grief had passed away, to become 
more and more inconsolable. So it is with all 
deep natures. 


ONE OF US. 


267 


In the first stage of mourning for our dead 
there is always a kind of rebellion against 
fate — a bewilderment in which we end by be- 
ing oblivious of everything, even the cause of 
our tears. It is when our eyes have wept them- 
selves dry, our hearts have exhausted them- 
selves with struggling — when, for the first 
time, we begin to say, “ resign yourself, 5 ’ that 
we see the awful void that death has created in 
our lives, and we feel how empty, still and cold 
existence has become for us. 

Daily the sense of what she had lost grew 
upon Zinka. It seemed as if she were ever 
stretching out into space for the strong arm 
which had supported her so lovingly. The gen- 
eral and Princess Vulpini did their very best to 
help her through this trying time. The one 
who did her most good was Truyn ; and some- 
times, toward evening, when she could feel 
sure that she would meet no one about in the 
streets, she would slip round to Gabrielle in the 
Hotel de TEurope, and it was touching to see 
how tenderly the child understood her elder 
friend’s sorrow ; how loving was her sym- 
pathy. 

On the morning of their departure Count 
Truyn and the general were at the station. 
Truyn got into the carriage to open or shut a 
window the maid c^uld not manage. When he 


268 


ONE OF US. 


had arranged it to his satisfaction, Zinka put 
both hands in his : 

<f God reward you for your goodness/’ she 
said, and raised her thin face as if for a kiss. 
Hesitating for an instant, he made the sign of 
the cross upon her forehead, then gently 
pressed her fair hair with his lips. 

“ Till we next meet ! ” he murmured huskily; 
and bowing once more to the baroness, left the 
carriage. 

When he stepped on to the platform his face 
was flushed, his eyes brilliant. Bareheaded he 
stood looking after the departing train, from 
which a thin, pale face was looking its fare- 
wells. 

“ If one had but the right to care for her ! ” 
he murmured. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

And now a few farewell words. Baroness 
Sterzl was one of the rare people who possess 
not a single redeeming point. In her Moravian 
estate, to which she had retired, she was in- 


ONE OF US. 


269 


tensely bored and treated Zinka with most un- 
loving hardness. Thoroughly discontented and 
embittered, she complained from morning till 
night, making every one who came near her 
unhappy with her sour face. After the year 
of mourning had expired, she felt a wish for 
change. She would rush off to the Baths or 
Vienna, where she collected the wreck of her 
old circles about her, endeavoring to create 
envy and astonishment in the minds of her ac- 
quaintances by reminiscences of her stay in 
Rome. She still wore a great deal of crape 
upon her dresses, and made use of black bor- 
dered note paper; spoke incessantly of being 
broken-hearted* at her son’s loss, and did her 
best to give herself a sort of Niobe-Nimbus, 
although, in reality, her outward grief was but 
a last pedestal to her vanity. 

The grim old artist-general always main- 
tained that she was in reality as proud as possi- 
ble that her son had been killed by f a Sempaly.’ 
She died some three years after the catastrophe 
from inflammation of the lungs, which she 
aggravated by insisting upon accompanying 
a friend, on a bitterly cold April day, to the 
Washing of Feet at the Sacre Coeur. Zinka 
mourned the loss of her mother more deeply 
than might have been expected. 

She passed summer and winter, year after 


270 


ONE OF US. 

year, in Alinkau ; where Gabrielle Truyn, with 
her English governess, often came to stay with 
her for a few weeks at a time. Count Truyn 
rarely came; and when he did it was only to 
stay a few hours. But the sacrifice he made in 
thus parting with his little comrade for her 
sake was only to be appreciated by one who 
knew his utter devotion to his child. 

With Princess Yulpini Zinka continued to 
keep up an affectionate correspondence. Her 
grief abated very, very slowly. But, as with 
all noble natures, it seemed to have a wonder- 
fully refining and purifying effect upon her. 
She devoted her life to works of self-denying 
benevolence. The one happiness left to her 
in those sad years was the alleviation of the 
sorrows of others. 

Shortly after the death of Baroness. Sterzl, 
General Klinger left Europe. He did not re- 
turn before the spring of last year, when he 
disembarked at Havre-de-Grace, in order to 
give himself a few days in Paris, on his way 
back to Rome. 

Thanks to the kind offices of an artist friend, 
he found himself privileged to visit the Salon 
on varnishing day— the day before the opening. 

Among the many fashionable young ladies 
who, under the aegis of their professor, or an 


ONE OF US. 


271 


artist friend, have contrived to obtain admis- 
sion to the much-sought-after private view, 
he was struck by the unusual loveliness of a 
young girl, who, with head erect, and light 
elastic tread, was hurrying from picture to 
picture, with the uncompromising critical judg- 
ment of an unfledged, but fanatical, novice in 
art. 

There was something so distinguished in her 
charming appearance, so exasperating in her 
naive arrogance, so childishly confidential in 
the manner with which she addressed the 
elderly man, one of the most renowned artists 
of Paris, who seemed to be conducting her 
through the labyrinth of art, that the old 
officer could not resist gazing at her with 
kindly admiration. Suddenly catching sight 
of him, she looked at him attentively, then 
coming up, with most bewitching frankness 
said : 

“ Oh, general, when did you come back ? 
How delighted papa will be ! Why, you have 
not altered the tiniest bit — ” 

“ That I cannot say for you, Countess Ga- 
brielle ! ” he rejoined. 

“No, I suppose not! When did we last 
meet ? Four years ago at Zini’s, was it not ? 
I was quite a child then/’ she chattered on. 
“ Now I am grown up ; and, moreover — only 


272 


ONE OF US. 


think, general, l am an exhibitor. Just a little 
water-color sketch,” she added, with a slight 
blush, which made her the image of her father. 
“You will come and see my small picture, 
won’t you ? ” 

“ Of course,” he said. Then, his eyes falling 
on her dress, “You seem to be in mourning.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “ half-mourning for poor 
mamma. It is nearly a year since she died.” 
A momentary gravity passed over her face. 
“Ah, there is papa,” she exclaimed, quickly 
recovering her spirits. “ We are always losing 
each other in the Salon. We have such op- 
posite tastes, do you know ? Papa is still 
quite one of the old school.” 

Count Truyn cordially greeted the general. 
Gabrielle’s eyes glanced with amusement from 
one to the other, the most roguish of dimples 
playing on her cheeks. Finally, going close 
up to her father, she whispered something to 
him in a very low voice. At first he seemed 
to hesitate, then said, not without a shade of 
embarrassment . 

“We are driving now to the Hotel Bristol, 
where we are to breakfast with my sister. I 
am sure it will give her the greatest pleasure 
if you will accompany us.” 

The general made a few demurs about “in- 
trusion,” etc., but finally yielded to Gabrielie’s 


ONE OF US. 


273 


soft persuasion, and soon found himself driving- 
through the flowery enchantment, enhanced by 
recent rain, of the Champs Elysees to the Place 
Vendome. 

“ Auntie,” cried Gabrielle, merrilly, as she 
entered the drawing-room. “ Guess whom we 
are bringing you ? ’ ’ 

“ Ah r” exclaimed the princess warmly. “It 
is you, general ; just the person we most desired 
to see.” 

Suddenly his eyes glanced from her. There, 
a little behind her, stood Zinka. 

The impress of a great sorrow had left its 
indelible mark upon her countenance ; yet there 
was the light of an abiding, intense happiness 
in her eyes which harmonized well with the 
memory of former sorrow. 

The sweet Maytime of her life had faded ; 
but there was that in her whole appearance 
of such tender charm that even Gabrielle’s 
freshness of happy eighteen could in no way 
detract from it. 

Count Truyn advanced toward her — an em- 
barrassed silence ensued. Suddenly Gabrielle 
broke into a peal of merry laughter. 

“ Can you not guess, general ? ” she cried. 

“It is not yet made public,” stammered 
Truyn ; “ but you have always taken so warm 
an interest,” taking Zinka’s hand in his. 


274 


ONE OF US. 

The general’s face beamed with delight. 
Clasping Zinka in his arms, he held out one 
hand to Truyn in hearty congratulation. 

But she, bursting into a flood of tears, whis- 
pered : “ Oh, uncle, if Cecil had but lived to 
see it ! 99 


And Sempaly ? 

After the terrible event he disappeared from 
the scene, traveled for a time in the East, then 
returned to his old career. 

To a Sempaly all is possible ! 

He is now looked upon as one of our most 
gifted diplomatists. A singular change has 
come over him. From being one of the most 
idle and favorite of loungers among attaches, 
he has become a rigid official. In exterior, too, 
he is changed. He is more distingue in appear- 
ance even than formerly ; but his features are 
sharper. He is irritable, haughty, inconsider- 
ate in speech, never failing to give utterance to 
the bitter things that lie uppermost with him — 
to men as to women. Yet, and perhaps even 
more now than formerly, he exercises an insu- 
perable charm over all who come in contact with 
him. Not long since, as the general was wait- 
ing at one of the Hungarian border stations for 
his train to Vienna, he was struck by the mu- 
sical voice of a fellow traveler, who, wrapped 


ONE OF US. 


275 


in a coat of otter fur, his traveling* cap pushed 
well down on his forehead, was giving* some curt 
instructions to his man servant. The old officer 
looked up, his eyes met those of the stranger — 
it was Sempaly, on his way back to Vienna from 
the East. They entered into conversation, but 
somewhat coldly. All at once Sempaly, with a 
brusquerie already familiarized as his through- 
out the civilized world, began, “ You were in 
Paris at the time — witness to the wedding. 
What do you think of Truyn’s marriage ? ” 

“ I am delighted at it,” returned the general. 

“Well, yes. Every one seems rejoicing. 
Marie Vulpini is charmed ; and Gabrielle was 
chief bridesmaid, they wrote me. f Enfin tout 
est pour le mieux dans ie meilleur des mondes 
possibles ,’ ” he quoted in his sharp, abrupt 
manner. “ And Zinka — how is she looking ? — 
the papers said she looked lovely.” 

“She is still ver} 7 * charming,” said the gen- 
eral, with the absent-minded garrulity of old 
age. “ Moreover, happiness is a wondrous 
beautifier. Her one regret is that Cecil did 
not live to see it all ! ” 

Even as he said the words, the terrible want 
of tact of which he had been guilty staggered 
him ; and to turn the conversation to neutral 
ground he began hurriedly alluding to Sem- 
paly ’s remarkably vapid success in his diplo- 


276 


ONE OF US. 


matic career ; adding that it must he a source 
of gratification to him to have found such a 
congenial sphere for his brilliant abilities. 

Sempaly looked scrutinizingly at him and 
gave a strange smile. 

“It is an odd thing, general,” he rejoined, 
with a shrug of his shoulders. “Youth exacts 
happiness from Fate as a right. In one's riper 
years one prays for peace as an alms ! It is 
easier to obtain that which one exacts than 
that which one prays for, but — one does not 
hold it fast.” 

t 


THE END. 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


By Lily E. F. Barry. 


It was Hospital Saturday at Bootle. 

There are just two or three facts about 
Bootle which a stranger picks up or has rubbed 
into him after an hour’s residence in the place. 
The first is that Bootle is dirty; the second 
that it has famous docks — a continuation of 
the great Liverpool docks — from which you 
g*et a fine view down the Mersey looking’ 
seaward ; and whither, the Bootleites tell you 
proudly, Turner used to come to see the sun 
set ; and the third is that Bootle has g*ot a 
hospital. 

On the whole, the last-named feature is, 
from certain points of view, the most impor- 

( 277 ) 


273 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


tant in the make-up of the town ; say, for in- 
stance, as an inexhaustible topic of conversa- 
tion among resident ladies with a turn for 
philanthropy ; or again, and more particularly, 
as the nucleus of many delightful and novel 
entertainments, in which young people of both 
sexes figure prominently and advance prodi- 
giously toward those pleasant little mutual 
understandings which frequently lead up to 
“ happy events.” 

The institution of Hospital Saturday, which, 
like Christmas, comes but once a year, is only 
one of the ingenious traps set for unwary 
purse owners by the plotting spirits of the 
ladies previously alluded to, whose deep inter- 
est in the maintenance of the revered institu- 
tion constantly urges them to develop new 
schemes for swelling its revenues. The plan 
of campaign is simple enough. Very early on 
the morning of the appointed day there ap- 
pears in every public place, and at various 
street corners in the most frequented thorough- 
fares, a small group of enthusiastic workers, 
surrounding a gay xy decorated cot-— or sem- 
blance of one — which serves as a receptacle for 
the offerings of the passers-by. Each helper 
in the good work is provided with a tiny bas- 
ket, having bright-colored ribbons twisted 
round the handle, and is authorized by this 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 279 

token of her office to accost all chance pedes- 
trians with the modest request : 

“ Will you give something for the Hospital, 
please ?” 

The effect is inspiring as well as picturesque, 
and more than one heart that is callous to 
ordinary appeals melts suddenly at the sug- 
gestive sight of the little white cot guarded 
by a sweet-faced girl, and a shilling, or ten 
shillings, nay, even a shining sovereign, thus 
finds its way into the temporary treasury of 
the Hospital. 

On the particular Hospital Saturday when 
my story opens, Bootle was more than ever 
“ dirty Bootle.” It had rained all night, and 
the paved streets and crossings glistened with 
oily mud. The weather was still unsettled, a 
gray sky hanging over the dull houses, and 
occasionally venting its sullen humor in a 
dispiriting drip of rain. 

But the young hospital workers, though not 
perhaps as smartly dressed as they might have 
been if the sky had shone fair, had made pretty 
successful compromise in the matter of toilets, 
and looked on the whole not uncheerful planted 
in their various stations, from which numerous 
little excursions had to be made in different 
directions to intercept comers whose way lay 
not straight in the line of the cot. 


280 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


Near the vaulted entrance to the Great West- 
ern Railway depot a knot of workers had taken 
up their stand. It was a favorable situation, 
being* protected from the weather, and in the 
way of an ever-changing crowd, filing to and 
from the local trains that came and went every 
few minutes. Mrs. Allan, who presided over 
this cot, had no grounds for complaint, for even 
in their haste few travelers passed in or out of 
the depot without throwing a shilling or a six- 
pence on the fast increasing pile. But even this 
did not satisfy her zealous acquisitiveness. See- 
ing that many people were passing at a point 
on the street just below the station, she coveted 
their pence. 

“ If one of you would stand over at that 
corner,” she suggested to her assistants, who, 
in an interval of waiting, stood grouped] around 
her. tff I believe it would pay. There are more 
than enough of us here anyhow.” 

The three girls to whom the remark was col- 
lectively addressed looked in the direction indi- 
cated by Mrs. Allan, and a common instinct 
puckered the three pretty faces into an expres- 
sion of demurrence. 

Gertrude Lee, a tall, beautiful girl, spoke 
first. 

“ Mrs. Allan is right. It would*be a splendid 
place. I’ll let you have it, Maude — ” 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


281 


“ Really ! your kindness is confusing*/ ’ Maude 
Bagot here broke in, bursting into a merry 
laugh, “ but I couldn’t think of depriving 
you.” 

“Come now, girls, don’t be mean,” Mrs. 
Allan said coaxingly. 

“ I see you are all marking me out for sacri- 
fice,” Hilary Nash exclaimed, with a bright 
smile that did not quite kill a sad look in her 
eyes. 

“ Hilary ! I always knew you were an angel !” 
Miss Lee interposed triumphantly, giving her 
companion’s cheek an affectionate little pinch. 
“ Go, dear, no one can resist those melancholy 
eyes of yours.” 

And Hilary went. 

“She is awfully good,” Miss Lee resumed, 
turning to the others. “ I feel positively 
wicked beside her. Still she is not the sort 
that makes you unhappy and sharp-tongued. 
She is always sweet.” 

“She is a brave little woman,” Mrs. Allan 
said, letting her eyes follow the girl’s retreat- 
ing figure. 

“ Indeed she is,” Gertrude Lee added de- 
cisively, “ only I wish she could forget that 
horrid man who treated her so badly. I don’t 
believe she ever will, though.” 

“You mean Tom Lynne?” Maude Bagot 


282 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


inquired ; “ I wonder did he ever marry the 
widow ? ” 

“ Train’s in,” Mrs. Allan interrupted quickly. 
“ Look to your baskets, girls.” 

Hilary kept her post faithfully throughout 
that long, dull day, and many a penny and six- 
pence found its way into her little basket. There 
was an appealing modesty about her demeanor 
which made men look twice at the tender, seri- 
ous face, and pretty, slight figure, robed in 
simple dark blue. 

Hilary was honestly eager for pennies, and 
her face indicated as much. No other senti- 
ment either of vanity or self-consciousness 
spoiled the look of bright expectancy that lit 
up her features on the approach of a new- 
comer. 

Shortly after midday she went home, “ just 
for a bite,” she said to Mrs. Allan as she 
emptied her basket into the cot. She was 
speedily back again to her duty. 

The afternoon wore away. The girls be- 
gan to droop. By six o’clock th?y were all 
glad to give up their baskets and make for 
home. 

But Mrs. Allan was indefatigable. 

“ Who’s coming back after dinner?” she 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


283 


asked confidently. “ Don’t all speak at 
once.” 

“I shan’t promise,” Gertrude Lee said, 
with affected solemnity, hut a lurking* catch- 
me - if - you - can expression in her laughing 
eyes. 

“ But she’ll he sure to come,” Hilary inter- 
posed with playful irony, “ I’m afraid I’m used 
up, though.” 

. “ What ! you ! ” 

“I’m afraid, yes. But I may feel better 
after dinner.” 

“You do look tired, child. Never mind, I 
shan’t expect you.” 

Hilary’s face was pale and a little drawn. 

“Thanks, hut I’ll see,” she said, smiling as 
she moved away. 

“Ah ! so you are hack.” 

Mrs. Allan was scarcely surprised when 
Hilary reappeared an hour later. She was the 
only one of the three that turned up. 

“ Yes, a wash and a good dinner set me up 
so that I had really no excuse for staying 
away,” Hilary said. 

“You are a dear good girl. Watch the 
trains now. There are a great many people 
about to-night.” 

For two more hours Hilary waited and begged. 


284 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


though with poor success. There seemed to be 
more confusion and haste about people’s com- 
ings and goings than there had been during the 
day. 

Few stayed to drop a coin in her basket. 
Her temporary feeling of refreshment gave 
way to a depressing w'eariness. Sad thoughts 
came trooping into her mind. The night, the 
loneliness and the rain combined to induce a 
state of melancholy which was becoming pain- 
fully habitual to Hilary. 

At such times a strange disgust of life would 
come over her, and a distinct longing to creep 
away into a hole and die. It was morbid and 
unnatural she knew, for at her best she was a 
girl of considerable spirit and sense, but her 
judgment was borne down by the keenness of 
her secret pain. The dreaded inood was clos- 
ing round her to-night as she stood alone near 
the entrance of the vaulted passage which led 
up to the trains. She leaned against the 
wall and let her face touch the cold white 
tiles. 

“ I wonder if I shall ever feel any joy in life 
again ? ” she said to herself. 

Then she heard hurrying feet and started. 
A train had come in. There were only a few 
passengers. She stood in their way and begged, 
but met no response. They all filed by unheed- 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


285 


ing her appeal. It was a cruel rounding to her 
sad reflections. 

“Y will go home now/’ she said, in a kind of 
despair. 

Then there were more footsteps. 

A man, in a great waterproof coat with a 
cape, was coming along the passage. In one 
hand he carried a small handbag, in the other 
a newspaper and a cane. 

“ Will you give something for the hospital, 
please ? ” 

The stranger was hurrying by, but stopped 
suddenly at the sound of the tremulous voice 
and the sight of the woman. 

Unknown to herself there was an almost 
tragic depth of earnestness in Hilary’s simple 
formula, repeated for the thousandth time 
to-day. 

the man deliberately laid down his bag', 
transferred his cane and newspaper from his 
right to his left hand, drew off his glove, un- 
fastened his outer coat and dived in his pocket. 
He drew forth a handful of coin and looked at 
it. A couple of sixpences, a shilling or two, 
and one bright guinea lay revealed on his broad 
white palm. He hesitated just for a moment, 
and then dropped the whole into the girl’s bas- 
ket. As he did he looked straight into her face 
-—and started. 


286 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 4 


Her eyes were riveted on him with an ex- 
pression of hopeless entreaty. 

“ Hilary ! ” he exclaimed, in a subdued voice, 
falling* back a pace or two. It was three years 
since they had met. 

“I — I — didn't know you,” she faltered, “or 
else—” 

He glanced swiftly up and down the passage- 
way. No one was in sig*ht but Mrs. Allan, who 
held the center beside her cot, and was half lost 
in the gloom. 

“You look tired,” he said g*ently, coming* 
near again. 

“ I am going home now,” she answered, 
quickly recovering from the sudden rush of 
her emotions, and moved a step away. 

“Not yet,” he said, in the imperious way she 
knew, “ please,” and he laid his hand on hers 
to stay her. 

She was so tired and cold and unhappy that 
she lacked strength to resist. In spite of her- 
self she was warmed and thrilled by this man’s 
mere presence. 

“I should like to go with you at least,” he 
said, almost abruptly. “ May I ? ” 

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Lynne.” 
She straightened herself up now and spoke 
proudly. 

“I will tell you on the way,” he an- 


HOSPITAT SATURDAY. 


287 


oWered humbly. “I am here for that , Hilary. 
Come.” 

She looked at him half dazed at the sudden 
strange turn of things in the direction of life, 
of joy. Then she motioned to her basket and 
walked away toward Mrs. Allan without saying 
a word. 

He watched her empty the money in the cot 
and shake hands with the lady who stood by 
it. Then she turned slowly round and came 
back to him. 

“ I am ready,” she said briefly. 

“ Poor child ! worn out, I suppose — why 
Hilary /” Mrs. Hash’s tone of affectionate 
sympathy changed to one of undisguised as- 
tonishment as her daughter appeared in the 
parlor doorway, her eyes suffused with bright- 
ness and her cheeks glowing with color. 

“Well, 1 declare!” Mr. Nash said good 
humoredly, pushing back his spectacles to get 
a better view of the radiant face before him. 
“Your mother here has been breaking her 
heart about you, thinking how limp and fagged 
you’d be after the day, and instead of that you 
come back looking as saucy and as rosy as if 
you were going to be married to-morrow.” 
And then Mr. Nash bit his lip, fearing he had 
made a thoughtless speech. 


288 


HOSPITAL SATURDAY. 


Hilary read his passing- thought and went 
and put her arms round his neck and drew his 
kind face down to hers. 

“It’s all right, dearie, for I am going to be 
married,” she whispered into his ear, arid seat- 
ing herself on his knee, she told them, then and 
there, of the strange happy ending of this 
memorable Hospital Saturday. 

THE END. 



A New Principle applied to Consumption 

And diseases of 

THROAT and 
LUNGS. 

Report of Medi- 
cal Commission 
showing results 
hitherto un 
known and 

impossible 
by prevailing 
methods, 

also illustrated 
folder and 
dresses of 

tients cured sent — 

on application. 

A WINTER AND SUMMER RESORT 

of peculiar excellence, including separate sanitarium treatment by 
strictly regular physicians. A Two Weeks’ Stay will prove 
superiority over any climatic change. 

STERLINGWORTH SANITARIUM, 

Lakevvood-on-Chautauqua, (Box 500.) New York. 



ftrn 


LIKE LUCIFER 


A NOVEL 


BY 

DENZIL VANE 


“ And when he falls , he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again."— Shakespeare 


New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 

1893 


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LIKE LUCIFER. 


BOOK THE FIRST. 


CATHERINE’S SORROWS. 

Unfriended, new -adopted to our hate, 

Dower’d with our curse, and stranger ’d with our oath, 
Take her —King Lear. 

I, under fair pretense of friendly ends, 

And well-placed words of glozing court ’sy 
Baited with reason not unplausible, 

Wind me into the easy-hearted man, 

And hug him into snares. — Comus. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE MASTER OF DALLAS TOWERS. 

It was the close of a brilliant summer day in the year 
eighteen hundred and fifty-eight. 

The clear amber light of sunset shone in at the open 
windows of the dining-room at Dallas Towers, and illu- 
mined the faces of two men sitting over their after-dinner 
wine, and talking with far more earnestness than is 
usual at a time generally devoted to jovial converse un- 
interrupted by the irrelevancy of feminine remarks, and 
unshackled by the restrictions imposed by the presence 
of “the ladies.” 

In face and figure the two men differed widely. The 
elder — James Dallas, a hale, hearty man of fifty — was 
an English country gentleman of good birth and average 
intelligence. His complexion was healthy and ruddy, 

( 3 ) 


4 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


telling of a life spent in the open air ; his clear well- 
opened blue eyes met yours frankly without evasion or 
uncertainty. So far, so good ; the upper part of the face 
was undeniably handsome, but the mouth and chin were 
singularly disappointing. The lines of the lips wanted 
decision ; the chin receded slightly, and gave an inde- 
finable but unmistakable look of weakness to the whole 
countenance. 

Those^ who knew James Dallas well said that few men 
combined as he did obstinacy with weakness, unforgiving 
harshness with easy good-nature. These peculiarities of 
character showed themselves in a variety of odd and 
contradictory actions. Dallas was an essentially proud 
man — proud of his good birth and ancient name, proud 
of his high standing in the county ; singularly tenacious 
of his authority in matters connected with the manage- 
ment of his large estate ; yet, during the past two years, 
he had allowed the man who now sat opposite him at ta- 
ble — drinking his rare old wine as one to the manner 
born, and bearing himself with the easy assurance arising 
from perfect familiarity with his present surroundings — 
to obtain complete mastery over him. 

The secret of the younger man’s ascendency might 
have been read — had any of the worthy country squires 
possessed the requisite penetration — in every line of Ber- 
nard Le Marchant’s dark and strongly accentuated face ; 
in the resolute, masterful expression of his square mass-, 
ive jaws ; in the extraordinary nervous energy apparent 
in his slight but muscular form. 

Le Marchant possessed that intense force of will which 
is in itself a power capable of all things. Listen to the 
conversation of these two men— standing in the actual 
relation of uncle and nephew, yet occupying in reality 
an inverse position toward each other than that suggested 
both by age and social standing. The young man spoke 
in firm, almost commanding tones ; the elder listened in 
attentive silence. 

“If you mean Catherine to marry me, you must adopt 
some definite plan of action, or she will go on in her own 
headstrong way without consulting your wishes. Indeed, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


5 


I have every reason to believe that she has already taken 
matters into her own hands.” 

“What do you mean by that , Bernard?” said Dallas, 
sharply. ‘ ‘Come, speak out, I hate hints and innuendoes. ’ ’ 

‘‘In plain words, uncle, Catherine has allowed that 
drawing-master fellow— or artist, I suppose he would call 
himself— to obtain a strong hold over her.” 

Le Marchant spoke with the contemptuous intolerance 
of one whose own social position is not based on a sure 
foundation. 

“What! Tristram Lowry?” exclaimed Dallas, violent- 
ly. “I won’t believe it! Catherine would never forget 
herself so far.” 

“As I will presently convince you, sir, Catherine has 
so far forgotten her position as your daughter — and heir- 
ess,” retorted Le Marchant, with a sarca^c stress on the 
last word. 

“By Heaven, if she has!” shouted the elder man, in 
one of the sudden bursts of fury to which he sometimes 
gave way, “she will bitterly repent her folly. No beggarly 
artist shall be master of Dallas Towers. The estate is not 
entailed — ” 

Here Dallas broke off abruptly and sank into a moody 
silence which lasted some minutes. Le Marchant ob- 
served him with the keen, quiet, masterful glance of one 
who watches the sullen temper of some animal he means 
to tame and dominate. 

“What would you advise me to do?” said Dallas, rous- 
ing himself at length, and looking across at his nephew. 
The habit of dependence on Le Marchant ’s judgment had 
become so rooted of late that it asserted itself in spite of 
his better reason. 

‘ I would question Catherine herself as to her relations 
with this Lowry,” said Le Marchant, leaning forward 
and fixing his keen eyes on his uncle’s face. “I don’t 
think she will deny that she has met him in secret on 
more than one occasion. ’ ’ 

The moment he had uttered the words, Le Marchant 
saw his mistake. He had gone a little too far. Dallas 
sprang to his feet with a fierce oath. 


6 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“You shall prove your words, sir, or you leave my 
house to-morrow !” 

James Dallas was weak, but he had the heart of a gen- 
tleman, and he loved his daughter dearly. For once he 
asserted himself. 

But Le Marchant never flinched. Experience had 
taught him that his uncle’s rare outbursts of temper were 
only to be subdued by a still fiercer exhibition of rage. 
His dark face glowed with a dusky flush, his keen, red- 
brown eyes flashed with sudden anger as he met his 
uncle’s glance of defiance. 

“I will prove my words to-night, sir, and you shall beg 
my pardon for that threat before you are a day older. ’ ’ 

Le Marchant ’s policy succeeded as it always did. The 
angry defiance died out of Dallas’ face with almost start- 
ling suddenness, his eyes fell before his nephew’s basilisk 
glance, the look of indecision returned to the weak mouth. 
In a moment the stronger will, the more powerful indi- 
viduality, the quicker intelligence had conquered. Dal- 
las was as wax in his nephew’s hands. 

“I — I did not mean to threaten you, Bernard,” he 
stammered, confusedly. “Come, let us talk over this 
matter quietly,” he continued, resuming his chair and 
stretching out his hand toward the decanter before him. 

These discussions and disagreements with his nephew 
told on his nerves in an alarming manner. Dallas’ 
healthy skin had turned to a dull white, and his hand 
shook visibly as he poured out his wine. 

“I confess the suddenness of your disclosure startled 
me, Bernard,” he went on, feebly. “Of late I have 
learned to look on your marriage with Catherine as al- 
most a certainty.” 

“It shall be a certainty if you follow my advice,” said 
Le Marchant, with quiet determination. “You have only 
to tell Catherine that, if she chooses to throw herself 
away on a penniless adventurer she will forfeit her in- 
heritance. I am much mistaken if Mr. Tristram Lowry 
will not be the first to withdraw from the affair,” he 
added, with a sneer that would not have disgraced Meph- 
istopheles himself. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


7 


“You think so?” exclaimed Dallas, eagerly. “I will 
send for Catherine directly, and tell her the determina- 
tion I have come to in this matter. She must choose be- 
tween Tristram Lowry and Dallas Towers. That will 
settle the matter at once,” he added, passing his hand 
across his forehead as though to sweep all troublesome 
anxieties from his brain. “I’ll trouble you to ring the 
bell, Bernard — or, stay, perhaps it will be better for me 
to see the child quietly in her own room.” 

“Wait a moment, sir,” said Le Marchant, a quiet smile 
fluttering on his thin lips ; ‘ There is no need for such 
haste ; — and remember I have first to redeem my promise 
to you. ’ ’ 

“What promise?” asked Dallas, absently, gazing out 
at the noble stretch of park visible from the windows. 

“Your memory is not very good, uncle,” replied the 
other, calmly. “I promised to convince you that Cath- 
erine meets Tristram Lowry in secret. I have not forgot- 
ten, if you have. Nay, I insist on proving the truth of 
my words. I am not in the habit of making unfounded 
accusations of so serious a nature. ’ ’ 

“I never said you were,” said Dallas, humbly; “but, 
my dear fellow, you must make allowances for a father’s 
feelings when he hears that his only child is likely to fall 
a prey to a mere fortune-hunter — ” 

“I make every allowance for you,” interrupted Le 
Marchant, “but I insist on proving my words.” 

“What an obstinate fellow you are, Bernard,” said 
Dallas, yielding, as he always did, to his nephew’s un- 
bending will. “However, as you are determined to put 
me through a very painful ordeal, I suppose I must give 
in. ” 

“If the ordeal be painful, I promise you it shall be 
short and speedy,” replied Le Marchant, quietly. “I 
must ask you to get your hat and walk with me as far as 
the Retreat.” 

The Retreat was a small pavilion, or summer-house on 
a large scale, sitpated in a solitary part of the park. 
Dallas knew that his daughter spent a good deal of her 
time there. The larger of the two rooms the building 


8 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


contained had been fitted up as a studio by Catherine’s 
express desire, and Dallas, who rarely opposed the least 
of her wishes, had allowed her to remove all her artistic 
paraphernalia to the Retreat, and install herself there as 
its sole mistress. 

Dallas’ face darkened ominously as he rose from the 
table and left the dining-room followed by his nephew. 

They crossed the wide stone hall, illumined then with 
broad bars of gorgeous color as the setting sun streamed 
through the stained-glass windows. This hall was the 
distinguishing feature of an otherwise ordinary English 
country-house ; it was one of the numerous instances, 
scattered throughout the land, of once sacred edifices 
turned to secular uses. The great hall at Dallas Towers 
had once been the chapel of a monastery, and, at the Ref- 
ormation, passed into the possession of an ancestor of 
the Dallas family. The rest of the house was not more 
than a couple of centuries old, and in no way remarka- 
ble. The rooms were large and lofty, and opened out of 
each other — an arrangement that gave an air of fresh- 
ness and brightness to the whole house, besides lending 
the supreme charm of a vista. But the great hall was 
strictly Gothic in design, with high-pointed windows and 
a delicate tracery of stone-work about the groined roof. 
In the hottest of summer days the hall was cool, shady, 
and quiet as some secluded world-forgotten cloister — a 
place to dream away an idle hour, pondering over the 
manifold changes wrought by Time in that ancient build- 
ing — once a shrine, now a mere appendage to a country 
squire’s home. Sicdransit gloria mundi! 

Dallas and his nephew crossed this noble hall without a 
thought of its past or present glories. An intense human 
interest filled the minds of both. To them the beauty 
of its delicate stone- work was as naught. They passed 
into the glow of sunset outside without vouchsafing a 
glance at the familiar charm of the spot. Custom had 
staled its infinite variety of loveliness. 

They left the house in silence, and by mutual consent 
at once took the way to the Retreat. 

Le Marchant felt that he had hazarded everything on 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


9 


the events of the next hour : his uncle’s favor ; his chance 
of winning Catherine for his wife, and thus gratifying both 
his love for her and his inherent avarice and ambition. 
Catherine was her father’s sole heiress, while he — Le 
Marchant — was the penniless son of James Dallas’ half- 
sister, a man dependent on his uncle’s bounty — a man 
without money or prospects, whose success in life de- 
pended on his own efforts. 

Two years before, he had come to the Towers with a 
letter written by his mother shortly before her death. 

Bernard Le Marchant ’s early years had been passed in 
Poverty’s hard school, and the creed he had learned 
there might fitly be expressed in Iago’s bitter ethics, the 
outcome of which is an insatiable craving for wealth — 
how gotten it matters not. “Put money in thy purse,” 
that was the object of Bernard Le Marchant’s life, the 
Alpha and Omega of his ambition. Money could pur- 
chase all he thirsted for. Social standing ; worldly suc- 
cess ; the envy of his inferiors ; the approval of those 
whom Fortune had favored beyond their just deserts — 
money would give him all that ; money he must and 
would have at all costs. Nature had given him many 
gifts, but wealth had been denied him. Wealth must be 
won. 

Le Marchant’s earliest recollections of his father were 
both vague and unpleasant. He remembered a tall, thin 
man, prematurely aged by a life of dissipation and excess 
— a man whose cruelty to his long-suffering wife was the 
indirect cause of her early death. 

James Dallas loved his sister tenderly, and, when her 
son returned to England from the small continental town 
where she died, he received him kindly, nay, affection- 
ately. As he read the last lines penned by his sister’s 
dying hand, all the pleasant memories of his boyhood 
returned to him. 

It seemed but yesterday that his pretty young sister 
Mary, the only child of his father’s second marriage, was 
the darling of their home. Mary Dallas’ story was a sad 
and a common one. At eighteen she fell in love with 
handsome Jack Le Marchant, whose regiment was quar- 


10 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


tered in the county town, and, in spite of the warnings 
of her best friends, she overcame her parents’ objections 
to the match and married him. 

At first the young wife was dazzled by Le Marchant’s 
charm of manner and pretended devotion to herself ; but 
her happiness was short-lived. She soon discovered that 
her husband was over head and ears in debt, that his ex- 
travagance passed all bounds, and — worse than all — that 
he was a confirmed gambler. 

The history of Jack Le Marchant’s downward course 
is soon told. Mary’s fortune, the bait that had tempted 
him to burden himself with a wife, melted rapidly away 
at the gaming-table ; and Le Marchant was forced to sell 
his commission to pay his most pressing debts. It was 
even whispered that, but for the compassion felt by the 
colonel for Le Marchant’s young wife, he would not 
have been permitted to leave the regiment under such 
honorable conditions — his extraordinary good luck at 
cards on more than one occasion having been looked on 
with suspicion by his brother officers. The affair was, 
however, mercifully hushed up, and Le Marchant retired 
to the continent, taking his wife and child with him. 

Then commenced the life of alternate reckless extrava- 
gance and abject poverty, which Bernard remembered 
with such bitter loathing — a life that would have cor- 
rupted and hardened a character made of far nobler 
elements than those which composed his powerful but 
perverted individuality. 

From his mother’s lips Bernard Le Marchant heard the 
story of her early girlhood at Dallas Towers, of the strong 
affection borne toward her by the brother to whose time- 
ly charity she had too often been compelled to have re- 
course, during those periods of temporary poverty when 
Jack Le Marchant’s luck at the gaming-table was persist- 
ently bad, and his pockets consequently empty. 

.When death at last seemed approaching, to give the 
longed-for release from her miserable fate, Mary Le 
Marchant wrote a farewell letter to her brother, begging 
him to befriend her son, and thus save him from the life 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


11 


of degrading associations that must be his were he left to 
his father’s sole care. 

After placing this letter in Bernard’s hands, Mary Le 
Marchant quietly breathed her last. 

Bernard only waited to see his mother laid to rest in 
the peaceful little cemetery near the town where they 
then lived, before setting out for England. The parting 
between father and son was curt and frigid — they had 
little in common, and, as the one redeeming point in 
Bernard’s character was his love for his unhappy mother, 
he cordially hated the man who had ill-treated her. 

On arriving in England, Bernard at once made his way 
to Dallas Towers, and presented his credentials to his 
uncle. 

What effect Mary Le Marchant ’s farewell letter had 
on her brother has already been told. With character- 
istic impulsiveness James Dallas took his nephew into 
his house, treating him more as a favorite son than as the 
penniless dependent he really was. Bernard, with his 
rare powers of observation sharpened by the life he had 
ed abroad, was quick to read his uncle’s character. He 
soon knew how to make Dallas’ weakness and indecision 
the means of advancing his own interests. * 

Young as he was, he was a consummate man of busi- 
ness, and, as he soon discovered, Dallas hated the mere 
dry details inseparable from the management of a large 
landed estate ; Bernard therefore made himself necessary 
to his uncle in a hundred ways. By degrees the obliging 
nephew relieved Dallas of the responsibility of governing 
the little kingdom over which he ruled. 

Every one on the estate soon felt the difference between 
Le Marchant ’s iron rule and Dallas’ easy-going, good- 
natured sway. The bailiff — a man who had grown gray 
in Dallas’ service — was dismissed, and Bernard reigned 
in his stead. So complete was his ascendency over his 
uncle, that the latter was to all intents and purposes a 
mere cipher. Le Marchant listened to all complaints 
from the tenants ; Le Marchant renewed leases on his 
own terms, and many were the muttered complaints of 
his inflexible harshness — complaints, however, which 


12 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


never reached Dallas’ ears, for he took good care that 
his own conduct should appear in a favorable light, that 
his own apparent severity toward the tenants should 
seem the outcome of his zeal for his uncle’s interests. 

Catherine was the only stumbling-block in Bernard’s 
path. She was Dallas’ only child, and he lored hdr de- 
votedly. Bernard knew well that, great as was his in- 
fluence over his uncle, it would not be powerful enough 
to turn him against his daughter. 

As long as Catherine did not wound her father in his 
tenderest point — his family pride — it was certain that all 
Bernard’s arts would not avail to thrust her from her 
place in her father’s heart. That being the case, he de- 
cided on another and a craftier plan of action. Bernard 
had not been domiciled at the Towers six months before 
he resolved that he would mayry his cous in. 

After some cautious sounding of his uncle’s intentions 
with regard to Catherine’s settlement in life, he ventured 
to impart his hopes to Dallas. Fortune favored him. 
Dallas listened to Bernard’s bold proposition with eager 
attention. One of the problems that had perplexed his 
simple mind since Bernard’s advent at the Towers, was 
how to provide suitably for him, witho ut defrauding 
Catherine of what was rightfully hers. Bernard’s prop- 
osition seemed to offer an easy solution of the difficulty. 
The nephew whose fortunes he wished to forward, and 
the beloved daughter whose happiness he was eager to 
secure, would alike be benefited by this arrangement: 
Bernard would be the master of Dallas Towers ; Cath- 
erine would have a husband in every way worthy of her. 

Catherine, however, with her sex’s proverbial perver- 
sity, refused to listen to the project, and turned from her 
cousin’s advances w r ith positive aversion. Her quick in- 
stinct warned her- against the man who had so strange 
an influence over her father, and she was revolted by 
Bernard’s specious manners and suave flatteries. 

Thwarted in this his most cherished plan, Le Mar- 
chant’s whole energies were bent on undermining Cath- 
erine’s position as her father’s heiress, by poisoning his 
benefactor’s mind against her— a consummation he knew 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


13 


well would be attained were he to inform him of the at- 
tachment which existed between Catherine and the 
young artist, TristranT'Lowry. Bernard had discovered 
by a lucky accident that the lovers met in secret, and 
he lost no time in acquainting Dallas with the fact, 
knowing as he did that his uncle’s pride would be deeply 
wounded by his daughter’s deceit. 

But he did not foresee the terrible results that would 
accrue from his evening’s work — had he so foreseen, even 
his callous heart might have relented ere it was too late ; 
his busy, scheming brain might have planned another 
road to fortune than that which had its commencement 
in the ruin of his cousin’s whole life. 


CHAPTER II. 
love’s young dream. 

Catherine Dallas was a beautiful girl of twenty 
when Fate brought Tristram Lowry across her path. 
Hers was a quick, warm, impulsive nature, without a 
trace of her father’s haughty pride or her cousin’s world- 
ly wisdom. Her open, fearless honesty was no match 
for Bernard’s craft; she showed him plainly that she 
both disliked and distrusted him. In fact, Catherine’s 
antipathy toward her cousin was so deeply rooted that 
nothing but respect for her father’s wishes made her 
treat him with any show of cordiality ; she could not 
pretend to any warmth of cousinly affection, so Bernard 
was fain to be content with the most distant politeness 
on her part — a politeness that was doubly irritating, in- 
asmuch as it left him no ground either for quarreling 
with Catherine, or for complaint to his uncle. 

Tristram Lowry’s appearance on the scene gave the 
final blow to Bernard’s hopes of winning Catherine for 
his wife, and jealousy was added to the various passions 
already raging in his breast. 

Catherine had a marked taste for Art, and her evident 
talent demanded a fuller scope than that usually afforded 


14 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


to the effoits of young lady amateurs. James Dallas, 
who seldom denied his daughter the gratification of her 
whims, was easily persuaded to seSure the services of a 
really efficient instructor, and Tristram Lowry, a young 
artist of some promise, was duly installed at Dallas Tow- 
ers as Catherine’s drawing-master. A couple of rooms 
were placed at the young artist’s disposal, and it was un- 
derstood that, excepting such hours as were devoted to 
Catherine’s instruction, Mr. Lowry’s time was his own. 

Dallas was charmed with their new inmate, and, be- 
fore Lowry had been a month at the Towers, Dallas dis- 
played his lack of judgment and knowledge of the world. 
He requested the young artist to paint Catherine’s por- 
trait. 

Le Marchant, with his usual acumen, soon guessed 
what would be the consequences of his uncle’s thought- 
lessness. He saw how events were tending. Catherine 
was herself placing the most powerful of all weapons in 
his hands, and he was resolved to use his new power over 
her without mercy. 

Had Catherine’s mother been living, her maternal in- 
stincts would have warned her of the danger to a young 
and inexperienced girl, in the long hours of companion- 
ship with one whose rare charm of manner and innate 
distinction of appearance rendered him in every respect 
the very ideal of a young girl’s fancy. ' 

Tristram Lowry’s talents were not of the highest order, 
but he painted with wonderful facility, a certain charm 
of treatment, and a delicate perception of the harmony 
of color. He was besides young, strikingly handsome, 
enthusiastic, ambitious of fame, and to Catherine he 
seemed a genius of the purest water. On the other hand, 
Lowry never realized the depth and width of the social 
gulf between the young heiress and himself. He was 
but two-and-twenty, and at that golden age all things 
seem possible. To his buoyant fancy, the difficult path 
which leads to Fame and Fortune seemed strewn with 
flowers — he knew nothing of the cruel thorns beneath 
them. To his ardent and poetic mind, it seemed that the 
gift of his devotion was an offering fit for the acceptance 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


15 


of the highest lady in the land — it never struck him that, 
in the eyes of all right-minded people, Catherine Dallas, 
the wealthy heiress; was as far above him as the stars. 
Catherine, though young in years, knew more of the 
world than her lover. She knew that her father, in spite 
of the easy pliability and surface good-nature of his char- 
acter, could be obstinate enough on some points, and 
would bitterly resent any infraction of the law of the 
Medes and Persians, which decrees that a young lady of 
fortune shall marry in her own rank of life. She was, 
besides, fully aware of her cousin’s intentions regarding 
herself, and she feared to arouse his enmity against Tris- 
tram. Her quick instincts warned her that Bernard was 
now her bitterest foe, for she knew that the secret of her 
love for Tristram was no secret to him. Le Marchant, 
however, held his hand ; he waited for Time to mature 
his plans. 

In due course Lowry completed Catherine’s portrait, 
and returned to London ; but he did not leave Dallas 
Towers without coming to an understanding with her. It 
was arranged that Catherine was to break the fact of 
their engagement to her father. Lowry was anxious to 
plead his cause in person, never doubting that Dallas 
would accept him with open arms as a suitor for his 
daughter’s hand ; but Catherine, who was keenly alive 
to the darker side of their prospects, begged him to leave 
the matter in her hands. Tristram yielded, after some 
demur, to her wishes, only stipulating that he should see 
her often. Thus it was that those secret and fatal meet- 
ings at the Retreat were arranged, and Le Marchant 
given the opportunity, which he had so long sought, of 
estranging Dallas from his daughter. 

Such is the irony of Fate ! Catherine had made up her 
mind to confess to her father on the following morning 
her love for Tristram, and her intention of becoming his 
wife. More than once she had approached the subject, 
but, in spite of all her good resolutions, she could not 
brace her nerves to encounter the storm of anger she 
knew would fall upon her head when he was made 
aware of the truth. 


16 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


This fatal reticence was destined to entail terrible con- 
sequences both on Catherine and on her lover. Well for 
us that the future is hidden from our sight, that we live 
on from day to day never thinking of the sword of Dam- 
ocles impending over our heads by a single hair, that we 
awake in the morning in light-hearted unconsciousness 
of the blow that is to fall ere night ! 

That brilliant summer evening on which Bernard 
played the traitor, Catherine hastened to the usual tryst- 
ing-place, her face glowing with the eager hopes of youth, 
her soft cheeks flushed, her large, clear gray eyes radiant 
with that beautiful, liquid inner light which tells of per- 
fect happiness. 

As she crossed the park on her way to the Retreat, she 
hummed a tune to herself in sheer exuberance of joy. 
The summer sky above was not more serenely bright 
than the future which stretched before her mind’s eye. 
Tristram Lowry loved her, and she loved him. That one 
sentence expressed the intense and boundless happiness 
which filled her life. He — a heaven-born genius, one of 
those lucky mortals on whom the gods have showered 
their choicest gifts of mental and physical endowments 
— thought her, Catherine Dallas, worthy to be the com- 
panion of his life. With the humility of true love, she 
wondered where lay the charm that had drawn him to 
her. Surely Tristram loved her for something more than 
the mere beauty of color and form which had charmed 
his artist’s eye ; surely his love would survive the fleeting 
charms of youth and beauty ; surely his devotion was 
something more than a young man’s passionate but eva- 
nescent love ! 

Catherine walked on toward the Retreat, still singing 
to herself. Tristram, who stood watching her from the 
small, rose-embowered window of their trysting-plaee, 
thought she looked like an incarnate sunbeam as she 
came rapidly toward him. She was bareheaded, for one 
of her whims was a dislike to any form of outdoor head- 
gear when within the precincts of the park ; consequent- 
ly her broad-brimmed hat was more often swinging over 
her arm than on her head. It was so now, and the level 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


17 


sun-rays shone full on her happy face, on the bright 
masses of golden-brown hair pushed carelessly back from 
her broad white forehead. 

Years after the remembrance of Catherine as she 
looked then, in all the freshness of her youthful bloom, 
would rise before his mind’s eye with cruel distinctness, 
as if to reproach him with the sorrow that embittered her 
innocent, happy girlhood— the sorrow which fell on her 
through him. 

Tristram came forward to meet her as she entered the 
summer-house. Coming suddenly from the intense bril- 
liancy and gorgeous glow of the sunset world without, the 
studio looked dark and full of strange shadows. She 
glanced round nervously, as though fearing that some of 
the shadows were tangible ; but the warm, living touch 
of Tristram’s hands reassured her, and she looked up 
trustingly in his face. All must be well since he was by 
her side. 

Tristram Lowry was a tall, handsome man, looking 
somewhat older than his years, with a clear, pale com- 
plexion, classically correct features, and large, dark, 
dreamy-looking eyes. Not a man to battle with the world 
and compel success, not one gifted with the iron perse- 
verance, the untiring, indomitable patience which are 
among the noblest attributes of true genius. Rather one 
to shrink sensitively from everything disagreeable, to be 
easily discouraged by failure, easily crushed by misfort- 
une. 

Catherine, however, observed none of these defects in 
her lover’s character ; she saw only the gentle, lovable 
face, the poetic, dark eyes, the winning charm of man- 
ner ; for she loved him as a woman loves but once in her 
life, and, woman-like, she refused to see any flaw in the 
idol she had set up for herself. 

“You are later than usual, Catherine,” said Lowry, in 
the soft and low tones she knew and loved so well. “I 
have been here nearly an hour.” 

“I could not get away before,” replied Catherine. 
“Papa and Bernard were late for dinner. They rode over 
to Compton Magna on business, and, I suppose, they were 


18 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


detained. What a long, tedious affair dinner was ! I 
thought it would never end. Papa and Bernard are still 
sitting over their wine ; so we are quite safe for an hour 
at least.” 

“Catherine,” began Tristram, gravely, “how long is 
this to last? I cannot endure this secrecy. It is galling 
to me to know that I can only see you by stealth — doubly 
so, when I know that your cousin Bernard can be with 
you any hour of the day without the necessity for deceit. ” 

“My cousin Bernard is not favored with much of my 
society.” retorted Catherine, with a slight compression of 
her delicate lips. I don’t think you need be jealous of 
him, Tristram,” she added, looking up at him with a 
gleam of mischief in her eyes. 

“I am not,” replied Lowry, tenderly. “I should be 
unworthy of your love, dearest, if I could find room for 
jealousy in the heart that is given wholly to you.” 

Catherine’s momentary petulance was soothed by this 
pretty speech. Tristram Lowry was an adept in the art 
of showering verbal confetti; and the slight cloud of 
vexation vanished from her fair face. 

She let him kiss the slim, white fingers he held, with a 
girlish assumption of queenly dignity that he thought in- 
finitely winning. 

“Now that you have made the amende honorable, Tris- 
tram, I will condescend to inform you what I intend to 
do,” she said, seating herself in a deep easy-chair, and 
pointing to a low stool at her feet, which lowly position 
Tristram accepted with becoming humility. 

Catherine leaned back in her chair, and clasped her 
hands beneath her head. She was silent. Her "eyes were 
fixed thoughtfully on the bit of bright blue sky visible 
from the window. 

Tristram looked at her in silent admiration. For the 
moment, the artist triumphed over the lover. In truth, 
Catherine made a lovely picture as she sat there in the 
shadowy gloom. The fashion of her gown showed the 
exquisitely tender curves of her full, white throat. The 
sleeves were long and loose, falling back from her round- 
ed arms and taper wrists ; and the gauzy folds of muslin 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


19 


that draped her girlish form veiled but did not hide its 
willowy grace. 

What wonder that Tristram longed to transfer such a 
picture to canvas. Was it not a positive disloyalty to 
ArUto allow such matchless beauty to fade without trans- 
mitting it to posterity? Should not his brush immortal- 
ize her name, as Gainsborough’s has that of the peerless 
Duchess of Devonshire? 

Tristram gazed at her in silence, fascinated by the 
witchery of the beauty he worshiped, as only an artist 
or 3, poet can. Catherine was one of the few women 
whose grace — that rarest of gifts — equaled her beauty. 
Every movement of the lithe figure, every turn of the 
well-poised head was instinct with the pliant ease that is 
in itself a subtle charm. 

“I have made up my mind to tell papa of our engage- 
ment,” said Catherine, suddenly, looking down at her 
lover. 

Tristram started slightly ; he had almost forgotten the 
subject of their conversation, so rapt was he in the con- 
templation of her rare and perfect loveliness. He heaved 
a sigh of relief. 

“Then all this uncertainty will soon end; I shall no 
longer be compelled to spend whole days without a 
glimpse of the face I love so well — the face that is the 
load-star of my life, Catherine,” said Tristram, softly. 

Catherine smiled down at him brightly, but her eyes 
still looked thoughtful. 

“Do not be too hopeful, Tristram,” she said, letting her 
arms fall and clasping her hands on her lap. “I know 
my father better than you do. He has set his heart on 
my marrying my cousin Bernard, and — ” 

“But Mr. Le Marchant is as penniless as I— nay, his 
position is far inferior to mine, for surely my Art has 
some dignity, ’ ’ burst out Tristram, impetuously. 

“I don’t think you understand the influence Bernard 
has over my father,” said Catherine, sighing; “my 
cousin has determined to be the master of Dallas Towers 
either by fair means or foul — so I suppose he thinks the 
easiest way to that desirable position is to marry me.” 


20 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


‘ ‘But surely — surely your father would not force you 
to marry him against your will ; surely he would not ig- 
nore your own feelings on the subject,” said Tristram, 
with rising anger. “Catherine, if you tell him you love 
me, he would not ask you to give your hand to your 
cousin — when your heart is mine,’' he added, in a tone of 
exultation. 

“I don’t know — my father can be very obstinate some- 
times,” answered Catherine, sighing dubiously; then, 
with a quick impulse of tenderness, she bent down and 
kissed her lover’s forehead. “Oh, Tristram, I fear our 
days of happiness are over, ’ ’ she said, with passionate 
sadness ; “we have lived our dream of love and joy — how 
I dread the awakening !” 

“Dearest love, it is a dream that will last our lives!” 
replied Tristram, clasping her to his breast with sudden 
passion. 

The hour Catherine dreaded was nearer at hand than 
she thought. At the moment Tristram’s arms were 
thrown round her a shadow fell between them and the 
sunset sky — a shadow which blotted out the soft, evening 
light like a sudden thunder-cloud portending storm. 

James Dallas, with his healthy, ruddy face blanched to 
a dull, ghastly pallor, his bright, blue eyes dark with 
passion, his right hand clinched and uplifted in an atti- 
tude of menace, stood glaring at them in speechless rage. 

For a moment Catherine gazed at her father in mute 
terror; it was the first time she had seen his temper 
roused to the white heat of passion. She clung to Tris- 
tram, pale and trembling. The window-sill was low, and 
the sash raised. With the agility of a young man, Dallas 
cleared it at a bound. 

“Loose my daughter, sir, or, by Heaven ! I shall be the 
death of you,” he shouted, mad with rage. “Catherine,” 
he added, turning furiously on her, “nothing but sight 
would have convinced me of your shameful deceit.” 

The words roused her from the momentary stupor into 
which she had fallen. She drew herself from Tristram’s 
encircling arms, the warm color flushed into her cheeks, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


21 


and her eyes flashed angrily. Father and daughter were 
startlingly alike as they faced each other. 

“You have no right to use such words to me, papa,” 
she cried, passionately ; “I never meant to deceive you, 
but — ” 

‘ ‘ Do not attempt to excuse yourself ; the facts against 
you are too strong,” retorted Dallas, fiercely. “It is 
enough that you have met this man in secret,” he added, 
with a wrathful glance at Lowry, who stood with a pale 
but resolute face waiting until Dallas’ storm of rage 
should subside. But the contemptuous reference to him- 
self stung him past endurance. 

“Allow me to bear any blame that we may deserve 
from you,” he interrupted, stepping to Catherine’s side 
and taking her hand in his. 

The action roused Dallas to fury ; he raised his clinched 
hand, and, but for Le Marchant’s timely intervention, he 
would have felled Tristram to the ground with one sav- 
age blow. 

Le Marchant, who had wisely allowed Dallas to enter 
the Retreat alone, was not, however, far from the scene 
of action. He had waited, with his usual diplomatic 
astuteness, for the result of the interview at a discreet 
distance, until the sound of voices raised in anger warned 
him that the time for interference had come. 

“My dear sir, do not let your anger— your just anger, I 
admit,” he added, with a triumphant glance at Cather- 
ine’s pale, frightened face— “make you forget your pa- 
ternal affection for my cousin.” 

The ill-concealed sarcasm of this speech, though it 
failed to wound Catherine, fulfilled Le Marchant’s inten- 
tion of adding fuel to the flame of her father’s anger. 

“She has proved herself utterly unworthy of my affec- 
tion,” said Dallas, angrily, though not without a slight 
tremor in his voice ; then, as his eyes fell on Tristram 
Lowry’s pale, handsome face, he added — “What have you 
to say to me,' sir? What right have you to lift your eyes 
to my daughter?— what right have you to speak for her, 
to couple her name with yours?” 


22 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“The best right,” replied Tristram, calmly — “your 
daughter is my betrothed wife.” 

“It is a lie !” shouted Dallas, violently. 

“It is true,” said Catherine, drawing up her slender 
figure to its full height, and flashing a proud, defiant 
glance at her father and Le Marchant. 

“Are you mad, Catherine? You, the heiress of Dallas 
Towers, marry a penniless artist ! But no, the heiress of 
Dallas Towers shall not do so, ” cried Dallas. “Cather- 
ine, you must choose between your lover and your inher- 
itance. If you marry Tristram Lowry, you will go to 
him without a shilling. ’ ’ 

The last words were uttered in the low tone of dogged 
obstinacy that Catherine knew well — and dreaded. She 
looked at him for an instant in silence, her lips quivered 
slightly, and she turned away to hide the rush of tears 
which dimmed her eyes. Her father’s cold tones wounded 
her far more deeply than his previous anger. Nothing 
but the presence of the man she hated saved her from a 
passionate outburst of weeping. She controlled herself, 
however, with a strong effort, but she dared not trust 
herself to speak. 

“Choose,” said Dallas, doggedly, “will you be my heir- 
ess or his wife?” he added, pointing to Tristram. 

Catherine felt Le Marchant ’s sinister gaze on her face. 
A shudder of intense repulsion passed through her as she 
raised her eyes for an instant and met his cold, watchful 
glance. She knew instinctively who had betrayed her. 

“Choose,” repeated Dallas, in a louder tone, “between 
his love and mine.” 

Catherine’s fingers tightened their clasp on Tristram’s 
hand. The warm, human contact exercised a magical 
effect on her. A flood of color rushed to her pale cheeks ; 
her eyes, drowned in tears a moment since, shone out 
clear and radiant as an April sky after rain. 

“I have chosen,” she said, in her sweet, clear, thrilling 
tones. “I will be Tristram’s wife, for he loves me, and I 
love him. ’ ’ 

Le Marchant, who had hitherto been a silent spectator 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


23 


of the whole scene, came quietly forward, and laid his 
hand on his uncle’s arm. 

“Come, sir; there is nothing more to be said. Cather- 
ine has made her choice — I hope she may never repent it. ’ * 

For one single moment the mask of smiling courtesy 
was lifted. Catherine saw her enemy in his true colors ; 
saw the deadly hatred toward herself — that undying, un- 
forgiving hate which is never slaked — the hatred that has 
once been love. A cold presentiment of coming evil crept 
over her ; she shivered as though smitten by a sudden 
chill blast. 

Le Mar chant saw the change in her expression, and 
knew that the breach between them would never be 
bridged over, that henceforth it would be war to the 
death. Any lingering hopes he might hitherto have in- 
dulged vanished forever, and the passionate love he had 
lavished on her so freely was turned to relentless enmity 
as she acknowledged her love for Lowry. 

The effect of Catherine’s words on Dallas was of a two- 
fold character. At first anger had full sway over him ; 
then pride asserted itself, and reigned supreme. She had 
avowed her love for this wretched artist-lover of hers in 
no measured phrase. It was evident that she had made 
her decision, and meant to abide by it. Dallas never 
doubted that she would keep to her decision — he read 
that much in her face ; he meant to keep his. 

“You are right, Bernard,” he said, turning to his 
nephew with a miserable attempt at a smile. “There is 
nothing more to be said. Catherine has made her choice. 
From this day she is no daughter of mine. I thank God 
that you are still left me— I shali not be quite alone in 
my old age.” 

The last words, spoken in a low and broken voice, 
touched a chord in Catherine’s warm young heart. She 
came a step nearer, and would have taken his hand, but 
Dallas drew back. 

“You have chosen,” he said, harshly. 

“Papa, don’t let us part— if part we must— in anger. I 
can’t break my promise to Tristram ; but surely — surely 
you will not cast me from your heart—” 


24 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Speak for me, Bernard,” said Dallas, appealing as 
usual to his nephew in all moments of hesitation. Le 
Marchant saw that his purpose already wavered — Cath- 
erine’s appeal had made some impression. He hastened 
to counteract the effect of her words. 

“Catherine,” he began, sternly, “your father bade you 
choose between your lover and your filial duty — you have 
chosen the first. As Tristram Lowry’s wife you will not 
be received at Dallas Towers ; as Tristram Lowry’s wife 
you will forfeit the wealth and the position you enjoy as 
James Dallas’ daughter. Have I rightly interpreted 
your wishes, sir?” he added, turning to Dallas, who was 
restlessly pacing up and down the little room. 

Thus appealed to, Dallas turned a pale, haggard face on 
the speaker. 

“Yes,” he said, hoarsely. 

The extraordinary change in him startled both Le 
Marchant and Catherine. Every trace of color had faded 
from his cheek, his eyes were wild and bloodshot, his lips 
twitched convulsively. He looked like a man whose very 
soul was torn by the strength of the emotion which shook 
him. 

“Father!” cried Catherine, running impulsively to his 
side. 

But Dallas waved her back, and Le Marchant ’s pale 
lips murmured in her ear, 

“You have made your choice, Catherine. My place is 
now at your father’s side.” 


CHAPTER III. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF TRISTRAM LOWRY. 

‘November 17tli, 1873. 

“To-day another disappointment has come to me. The 
picture-dealer who has hitherto purchased my paintings 
informs me that he has no further demand for my pro- 
ductions. Fate is hard on me. At times I am seized 


LIKE LUCIFER. 




with paroxysms of fearful depression, from which not 
even my wife’s loving words can rouse me. Poverty, 
horrible, sordid, hopeless poverty stares us in the face. A 
curse seems to have fallen upon me since my marriage. 
I would not for worlds that Catherine should read these 
lines, but it is some relief to my overtaxed brain to write 
them. The mere mechanical work of writing is better 
than the enforced idleness to which I am condemned. 
My beloved Art is dead to me, for I dare not trench on 
the miserable sum that stands between us and starvation, 
by the expenditure of a few shillings on paints and can- 
vases. Indeed, I have on hand more pictures than I am 
ever likely to dispose of. 

“Has my right hand lost its cunning? — or has the tide 
of fortune set against me in such overwhelming strength 
that my feeble endeavors to breast it are worse than 
futile? 

“When I look in Catherine’s wan, harassed face, on 
which care has already set such ineffaceable marks; 
when I see how her beauty has faded, how completely 
her brave spirit is broken by long years of poverty and 
misfortune ; when I see our child’s pale, thin cheeks and 
fragile frame, I am tempted to cry out ‘my punishment 
is greater than I can bear. ’ 

“Was I right to accept the sacrifice which Catherine 
made in marrying me? Was I right to drag her down to 
such poverty as this? I cannot say. I only know that T 
acted for the best. For fifteen years Catherine has b 
to me a gentle, faithful, and most loving wife ; for fift< 
years we have struggled on against overwhelming ode 
I have dragged the woman I love down to the deepen 
depths of poverty ; and yet, God knows, I would shed 
my heart’s blood in Catherine’s service. . . . My life 
has been a failure. . . . 


“November 18th. 

“I closed my diary last night with the saddest words a 
man can well write, ‘ My life has been a failure.* I read 
them over this morning with a remorseful pang. No life 
can be an utter failure that has been blessed by the pure 


26 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


unselfish love of a woman. When I think of all Cather- 
ine has sacrificed for my sake — the wealth and luxury 
she has exchanged for poverty and hardship — I feel how 
unworthy I am of her love. To-day I am determined to 
make one more effort to obtain work — no matter how 
sordid or ill-paid it may be, so' long as I can earn enough 
to keep wife and child from absolute starvation 

“November 20th. 

“I answered an advertisement in yesterday’s newspa- 
per, offering employment as clerk in a merchant’s office. 
It was the usual story. When asked if I had been em- 
ployed in a similar capacity before, I could only answer 
in the negative. When questioned as to my past profes- 
sion, I could only say that I had been and still was an 
artist, but that I had no sale for my pictures. I was dis- 
missed with the curt observation that the firm only em- 
ployed men of some experience in the duties of a clerk, 
and that, even were they disposed to give me a trial, the 
fact of my avowed failure in another profession did not 
speak in my favor. 

“I was too sick at heart to question the soundness of 
the head-clerk’s logic. I left the office in despair, and 
returned to the wretched lodging that is now our home. 
I found Catherine stitching away at a dress for Vivien. 
The child’s rapid growth makes increasing demands on 
vife’s feminine ingenuity. She looked wearily up 
2 her task as I entered the room. I was struck anew 
h fhe change in her. Day by day her cheeks grow 

ore hollow, her eyes brighter, her fragile figure more 
gainfully thin and wasted. My heart tightened with a 
sudden, awful dread, as I looked at her. Is my wife 
slowly fading from me? 

“Oh, God! I dare not think of it. And yet — and yet, 
when I listen to that hacking cough — that labored breath 
.... I will not think of it ... , 


“December 16 th. 

“Since I last opened my diary my worst anticipations 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


27 

have been realized. Catherine is ill — dangerously ill. 
How will it all end? God knows ! 

“I write this at night, as I sit in my wife’s room. She 
is sleeping quietly now, after a feverish, restless day. I 
have sent Vivien to bed, much against her will. The 
child has scarcely left the sick-room for days. With a 
womanly patience and gentleness far beyond her years, 
she has tended the mother she loves with a quiet intens- 
ity that makes me tremble. 

“What will become of my child, if — But I will not 
despair ! Surely help must come soon ; surely there are 
limits to human suffering .... I can write no more ; 
my brain is on fire with distracting thoughts .... 

“January 3d, 1874. 

“Catherine has rallied slightly since I last wrote in my 
diary. The doctor says there is no actual disease. He 
questioned me very closely respecting my wife’s health 
and spirits in the past. One question he asked struck to 
my heart like a knell : ‘Was there consumption in my 
wife’s family?’ I replied that I believed not, though I 
could not speak with any certainty. I begged him to tell 
me if Catherine herself was threatened with the disease. 
The doctor replied that he had every reason to hope that 
it might be averted, if Catherine were removed at once to 
a milder climate — the South of France, or, if she were 
not able to undertake so long a journey, a change to any 
of the sheltered watering-places on the English coast 
would have an undoubtedly good effect on her health. A 
generous diet was absolutely essential. 

“I listened to the doctor’s words in silence. I think he 
guessed my thoughts ; for he turned to my little Vivien, 
patted her kindly on the arm, and bade her ‘go on taking 
care of her mother, who would soon be better. ’ Before 
I could command my voice sufficiently to thank him for 
his kindness (he had quietly put aside the fee I tried to 
slip into his hand as he passed me) he had left the room. 

“Vivien came to me, and wound her thin little arms 
round my neck. She looked white and scared, and her 
large eyes searched my face inquiringly. 


28 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


1 ’Papa,’ she said, in a frightened whisper, ‘does the 
doctor think mamma is very ill?’ 

‘ Then my self-control forsook me. I hid my face on 
the child’s shoulder, and burst into a passion of sobs and 
tears. Heaven help me ! I suppose the strain of the last 
few weeks has told on a body already weakened by pri- 
vation. Vivien’s terrified attempts at consolation soon 
brought me to my senses. I hastened to reassure her as 
to the cause of my agitation. Child as she is, I think she 
understood what I was suffering. 

“My poor child has, alas ! been early inured to poverty 
in one of its direst forms — the poverty that is too proud to 
beg ; that bears the cruel pangs of hunger in silence .... 
I dismissed her with a kiss, to her mother’s bedside ; for 
I longed to be alone, to face the extent of the calamity 
that has befallen us ... . 

“January 7th. 

“After many bitter struggles with my pride, I have at 
last resolved to appeal to Catherine’s father, to break the 
silence we have maintained toward him for fifteen years. 
Catherine has consented to let me try to obtain an inter- 
view with him, if possible, without Bernard Le Mar- 
chant’s knowledge. My wife seems to fear this man’s 
evil influence over her father with almost superstitious 
dread. 

“During these years of separation from all her relatives 
and friends, we have had little opportunity of hearing 
more than the scanty items of news gathered from the 
daily papers. It was thus we heard of Bernard Le Mar- 
chant’s marriage, which took place within a year of our 
own ; then that a daughter had been born to him. A 
strange coincidence. His daughter will in all probability 
inherit the wealth which should rightly have been Vivi- 
en’s. I often wonder whether, in the distant future, Fate 
will ever bring my child and her unknown cousin to- 
gether. Their paths in life are widely sundered in the 
present .... 

“January 8th. 

“Much to my surprise, Catherine takes a very hopeful 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


29 


view of the projected appeal to her father’s generosity. 
To-night she talked of the old happy time at Dallas Tow- 
ers, before Le Marchant had gained such fatal influence 
over her father’s mind. Something of her former spirit 
and animation returned. With her thin cheeks glowing 
with a soft flush, her eyes bright and liquid, her long 
waving hair, which still retains its color and abundance, 
flowing over the pillow, her beauty shone out with al- 
most startling brilliancy. 

“Vivien, who, as usual, sat by her mother’s side, gazed 
at her in silent wonder at the marvelous change. Poor 
child ! it was a new experience for her to see her pale, 
sad-faced mother flushed and eager, to hear her quiet 
voice take the clear, ringing tones of happiness and hope. 
I ask myself again, ‘How will it all end?’ . , . 

“January 9th. 

“Catherine has decided that the appeal to her father’s 
generosity is to be made without further delay. If help 
is to be of any real use to either of us, it must come soon. 
How and where to see Mr. Dallas is the great difficulty. 
It is absolutely essential, if the appeal is to bear any 
fruit, for me to see him alone. In all probability, Le 
Marchant exercises the same fatal influence over him as 
of old, and keeps a strict watch over his movements. The 
question is how this vigilance is to be baffled. 

“The first thing is to ascertain whether Mr. Dallas is 
now in London. Should he be at the Towers, the diffi- 
culties in our way will not easily be surmounted. First 
there would be the necessity for delay, then the difficulty 
of obtaining the requisite sum of money for the journey. 

“At first I suggested communicating with Mr. Dallas 
by letter, but Catherine at once declared that such a step 
would be worse than useless. 

“ ‘It would only put Bernard Le Marchant on his 
guard, ’ was her instant reply. 

‘ ‘I tried to reason her out of her intense distrust of her 
cousin, but her only answer was, 

“ ‘He has been my evil genius, Tristram; I only pray 
that he may not cross my child’s path.’ 


30 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Fear for Vivien’s future has evidently occupied most 
of Catherine’s waking thoughts since her illness. More 
than once I have seen her eyes follow the child about the 
room ; more than once I have seen traces of tears on her 
cheeks when Vivien has been busy with some small house- 
hold care. I can see that the possibility of her being cast 
friendless on the world causes my wife the same cruel 
anxiety it has caused, and still causes, me ... . 

“January 17th. 

“A week has passed since I made any entry in my di- 
ary. During that time I have succeeded in finding out 
Mr. Dallas’ present abode. He is now living in a fur- 
nished house in Brook Street, Mayfair. I have made 
cautious inquiries in various quarters, and have elicited 
the following items of intelligence respecting his present 
habits of life. Mr. Dallas is staying in London for the 
purpose of consulting an eminent physician about his 
health, which is in a very precarious state. His house- 
hold consists of his nephew, his nephew’s wife and daugh- 
ter, and several servants. Since his arrival at Brook 
Street, Mr. Dallas has only once left the house. I learned 
these and some other particulars from a talkative assist- 
ant at the chemist’s shop where Mr. Dallas’ prescriptions 
are made up. 

“It is evident that, if I am to attain my object, the only 
course possible is for me to present myself at the house 
in Brook Street and ask to see Mr. Dallas on important 
business. The simplest plan of action is often* the best. 
There is just a chance that the very boldness of the pro- 
ceeding will disarm suspicion. We are, of course, quite 
in the dark as to Le Marchant’s schemes, but I have little 
doubt that he has ingratiated himself so completely with 
Mr. Dallas that his ultimate possession of the Dallas es- 
tates is almost a matter of certainty. Catherine will not 
entertain the idea of any appeal being made to Le Mar- 
chant himself. She shrinks from * the mere thought of 
my seeing or speaking to the man whose evil counsels 
have had such a fatal effect on her father’s character. 
Catherine is possessed by the idea that her disobedience 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


31 


would have been forgiven years ago, but for her cousin’s 
influence .... 

“January 18tli. 

“Vivien is to accompany me toiler grandfather’s house 
to-morrow. Catherine has great hopes that the sight of 
her child will plead more powerfully for her than any 
words of mine. There is such innate truthfulness and 
straightforwardness about our child that, young as she 
is, I felt it right to tell her the real object of our visit. 
For the first time, therefore, Vivien has learned some- 
thing of her parents’ history. She listened in silence, 
with her large, clear eyes fixed on my face, and when I 
concluded the story of our early sorrows, she crept close 
to my side and wound her slight arms about my neck. 
She did not utter a word, but I knew that her vivid im- 
agination had been strongly excited ; there was a thought- 
ful pucker on her brow as she listened to her mother’s 
story. 

“Vivien is, in many ways, a strange child, and I am 
often at a loss how to treat her. At times there is a quiet 
self-contained reserve about her that is at variance with 
the childish gayety natural to her years — for, thank God ! 
poverty has not yet crushed such gayety from her heart. 

“Vivien’s beauty — for her pale face is beautiful in 
spite of its thinness — is of no common order. The low, 
arched forehead is of commanding breadth and gives 
promise of rare mental power. Her eyes are large and 
clear, dark gray in color, like her mother’s, with long, 
black, upward-turning lashes — eyes of wonderful expres- 
sion and sweetness. Time has yet to develop the slight, 
childish figure and the delicate high-bred features. 

“Catherine is confident that Vivien will be the peace- 
maker between her father and herself. To-night she 
called her to her bedside, and talked to her long and 
earnestly in whispered tones. I could not distinguish the 
words, for I was sitting apart at the window ; but I 
guessed that Catherine had confided to her some message 
of grave import to be given to Mr. Dallas, if we succeed 
in gaining admittance to-morrow to the house in Brook 
Street. ’ ’ 


32 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE HOUSE IN BROOK STREET. 

It was one of the raw-cold days, only too familiar to 
those whom necessity compels to pass the whole winter 
in London — a day that has none of winter’s best charac- 
teristics, but is only dull, gloomy, and depressing : a day 
when the sky is an uninterrupted expanse of leaden gray, 
without a single gleam of sunshine to redeem its cheer- 
less monotony ; when the air is neither pleasantly mild 
nor briskly bracing, but blows cuttingly round exposed 
corners, with the ruthless determination to pierce to the 
very marrow the hapless pedestrians trudging through 
the muddy streets, with bent heads, chilled fingers, and 
blue noses. 

The whole scene was the reverse of exhilarating. The 
parks and squares — their gaunt, naked, smoke-begrimed 
trees, dripping with damp, looming fantastically through 
the mist — were given over to desolation and decay. The 
melancholy chirp of a legion of bedraggled sp&rrows was 
the only sound that broke the dreary silence of those 
wide open spaces, which in spring and summer are the 
delight of thousands who would otherwise seldom, or 
ever, taste the. joy of seeing trees, and grass, and flowers 
grow and flourish under the wide vault of heaven. 

The streets, though noisy and busy, as London streets 
always are and must be, in spite of the absence of the 
fashionable world— that small section of Humanity called 
Society— were not a much pleasanter spectacle. The mud 
asserted itself everywhere, in spite of the efforts of the 
scavengers. The pavements were slippery ; the clinging 
damp hung like a pall over the whole city. 

Tristram Lowry buttoned his threadbare coat across 
his chest, as he faced the rasping wind. * He was not 
alone : many glances followed the child who, with her 
small hand clasped tightly in his, walked by his side. 

Vivien’s picturesque curls and delicate features attract- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


33 


ed much attention from the passers-by. She was tall for 
her age, and the expression of earnest gravity on her face 
made her look almost a woman. Neither spoke a word, 
for both knew the extreme — the vital importance of their 
errand. But, now and again, Vivien cast an anxious 
glance at her father’s pinched and haggard face ; at the 
thin figure, prematurely bent with the weight of sorrow 
they had patiently borne for so many years. As she 
looked at him, her eyes filled. 

The secret of Tristram Lowry’s failure in life was writ- 
ten in every line of the refined and still handsome feat- 
ures, in the almost womanly softness of the dark eyes, 
round which time and anxiety had traced deep wrinkles, 
in the sensitive curve of his lips. He was one of those 
who have failed to realize the glorious dreams of youth. 
One of those on whom poverty and disappointment have 
no bracing, no inspiring effect. One rather to need the 
sunshine of happiness, the rapture of success, to bring to 
perfect fruition the talents which Nature had bestowed 
on him. 

Misfortune had come to Tristram Lowry, and he had 
sunk beneath its weight. The unquestionable gifts with 
which he was dowered had not availed him in the strug- 
gle of life, for he lacked the patient indifference to de- 
feat, the quiet but unswerving determination to achieve 
success in spite of all obstacles, without which nothing 
really great is ever accomplished. 

Ambition had tempted him along the difficult path 
which leads to Fame, but, having lost his place in the 
great race, he owned himself beaten, and sank under the 
knowledge that he had failed in the career that had once 
promised so fairly. 

Tristram trudged on, with Vivien at his side, through 
the cold and damp of that dreary January afternoon. His 
heart was heavy within him. The cruel anxieties of the 
past week had tried his bodily strength to the utmost. 
With all his faults, Lowry loved his wife and child; he 
suffered cruelly in seeing them suffer. He could bear 
cold and hunger himself without a murmur, but his heart 
was wrung with bitter anguish and rebellious despair 


34 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


when he thought of his sick, perhaps dying, wife ; of his 
innocent child in need of the bare necessaries of life. 

In his secret soul Lowry hoped little from the long- 
thought-of, anxiously-planned visit to his father-in-law’s 
house. But he would not damp Catherine’s ardent an- 
ticipations — he dared not quench the one spark of hope 
that served to brighten the cheerless darkness of their 
lives. 

The distance was considerable from their humble lodg- 
ings in Lambeth to the fashionable quarter where James 
Dallas lived. Dusk was deepening into night before 
Lowry and Vivien reached Brook Street. 

With characteristic indecision, Lowry took several 
turns up and down the street before he could nerve him- 
self to ring the bell and ask to see Mr. Dallas, in the ordi- 
nary tone of a visitor. His pride, too, suffered greatly in 
having to approach his father-in-law literally in formd 
pauperis. 

Then the thought of Catherine recurred to his mind — 
Catherine ill, dying, perhaps, for want of the necessaries 
of life, while her father was lavishing his wealth on one 
whose claim on him was naught in comparison with hers.* 
The thought was unendurable. 

Lowry’s momentary hesitation vanished ; he ap- 
proached Dallas’ door and boldly rang the bell. 

“I wish to see Mr. Dallas on important business,” he 
said to the servant who answered his summons. 

The man looked at the shabby clothes, the worn shoes, 
the gloveless hands of the speaker, and shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“My master never gives to* beggars,” he said, stepping 
back preparatory to shutting the door in Lowry’s face. 

“I am no beggar — ” began Lowry, his thin cheeks crim- 
soning angrily. He stopped abruptly and bit his lip as 
he remembered that the servant’s words were practically 
true. He had come to beg. 

“You look like one,” retorted the man, with another 
glance at Lowry’s shabby coat. 

“Will you give my name to your master? I feel sure 
Mr. Dallas would see me if he knew my errand, ” said Low- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


35 


ry, patiently. “Tell him that Tristram Lowry begs for 
five minutes’ conversation with him alone.” 

“Well, there can be no harm in my taking up your 
name, I suppose— though Mr. Le Marchant is so uncom- 
mon particular who sees my master, ” muttered the ser- 
vant, in an undertone. “You stand there,” he added, 
sharply, as Lowry made a movement to cross the thresh- 
hold. 

The servant slammed the door, leaving Lowry and 
Vivien standing on the step. The cold night air blew 
keenly on them, penetrating their thin garments and 
chilling them to the bone. Vivien looked anxiously in 
her father’s weary face, and pressed his hand in silence. 
The walk had been long and tiring ; Lowry felt faint and 
exhausted, but the touch of those fragile, childish fingers 
roused his failing courage and put new life into his worn 
body. He drew himself up with something of his former 
dignity of mien and waited for the answer to his message 
with outward composure, though his heart was heavy 
with a strong foreboding of evil to come. 

The door opened again after a brief interval, and this 
time the servant addressed him with decent civility. 

“My master is too ill to see you himself, but if your 
business can be told to a second person, and is very press- 
ing, Mr. Le Marchant will see you.” 

Lowry hesitated. 

“Did you give Mr. Dallas my name?” he inquired, 
eagerly. 

“No, I have orders to give all messages to Mr. Le Mar- 
chant first. ’ ’ 

“And did he send me that message?” said Lowry, 
bitterly. 

“Of course he did,” retorted the man, wondering at 
this shabby man’s odd manner, ‘ and very considerate of 
him too.” 

Lowry was determined not to take offense at the ser- 
vant’s insolent tone ; he stood for a moment debating 
with himself whether to see Le Marchant, or wait for 
another opportunity when he might succeed in gaining 
access to Dallas himself. 


36 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


The extreme urgency of his errand, however, decided 
him to take the former alternative. 

‘ T will see Mr. Le Marchant,” he said, briefly. 

Lowry entered the house followed by Vivien. The ser- 
vant ushered them into a small room on the ground floor 
—a plainly furnished but comfortable apartment, evi- 
dently used as a study. A large coal fire burned brightly 
in the grate, and the subdued light of a shaded reading- 
lamp shed a soft radiance on the few, but choice pictures 
on the walls, on the warm-hued curtains which draped 
the single window, on the tall book-cases filled with rich- 
ly-bound volumes. 

Lowry cast a rapid, comprehensive glance at these de- 
tails. To Vivien’s simple mind, the room was a perfect 
revelation of undreamed-of luxury. She gazed round her 
in speechless admiration. 

Though outwardly composed, Lowry waited for Le 
Marchant’s appearance with a strange conflict of feeling 
in his heart. Memory carried him back to the summer 
evening when Catherine had chosen between her love for 
him and her love for her father — between her lover and 
her inheritance. He wondered how time had sped with 
Le Marchant. Wealth and social standing had fallen to 
his share ; he was doubtless looked up to by his inferiors 
and respected by his equals. The world had pronounced 
its verdict in Le Marchant’s favor. He had prospered, 
thanks to his unscrupulous use of the blind confidence 
reposed in him by Dallas, while Lowry, with his high 
sense of honor and sensitive pride, had gone to the wall. 
Worse than that, he had dragged down to poverty the 
woman whose unselfish love had triumphed over every 
consideration of worldly wisdom. 

A step outside in the passage roused Lowry from the 
memories of the past to the stern realities of the present. 
The door opened and Le Marchant entered the room. 
For a moment the two men gazed at each other in silence. 

Fifteen years is a large slice out of a man’s life. Time 
had left unmistakable traces of care on Le Marchant’s 
face. The penetrating red-brown eyes were, however, 
unchanged ; they looked out from under the broad, com- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


37 


manding brow with the same expression of mingled in- 
tensity and craft. His cheeks had sunk, dark rings sur- 
rounded his eyes, and two deep lines were traced on 
either side of his thin-lipped mouth; but his spare, well- 
knit frame was erect as of old, and the intense vitality, 
the wonderful nervous energy of the man was apparent 
in every movement — nay, in every look. 

For once, however, his habitual self-command forsook 
him ; a momentary contraction of the lips betrayed that 
emotion of some sort moved him. 

Lowry had risen from his chair at the sound of the 
opening door, and stood pale, but composed, waiting for 
the other to speak. 

Le Marchant’s self-possession quickly returned; he 
looked inquiringly from Lowry to Vivien, and back 
again from Vivien to Lowry. He was evidently puzzled 
by the child’s presence in the room. 

Vivien did not to any great extent resemble either of 
her parents. The serious gaze of her large gray eyes, 
though it had a curiously disconcerting effect on Le Mar- 
chant, did not recall any memories of Catherine. 

“You wished to see Mr. Dallas, the servant tells me,” 
said he at length, speaking in his habitually quiet, even 
tones. 

Lowry’s face darkened at the sound of the well-remem- 
bered voice. 

“Yes,” he answered, briefly. 

“Are you not aware that Mr. Dallas declined to have 
any communication with his daughter when she married 
you, in defiance of his commands? As your wife, she 
has practically forfeited all claim on her father. Any 
attempt at resuming her former relations with him will 
be useless. Mr. Dallas refuses to have any communica- 
tion with his daughter — or her husband. I much regret 
that you should have thought proper to intrude yourself 
on his notice, and I can only add that nothing but my 
own consideration for my cousin prevented me from re- 
fusing you this interview.” 

The cool insolence of Le Marchant’s tone and manner 
as he delivered himself of this speech stung Lowry be- 


38 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


yond endurance. A red flush mounted to his forehead, 
which quickly, faded to a livid pallor. He clinched his 
hands to keep down the furious anger boiling within him. 

Le Marchant watched him with secret satisfaction. He 
longed to wound and torture the man who had won Cath- 
erine’s heart ; he delighted in rousing Lowry’s impotent 
anger, while he retained perfect command over his own 
temper. The knowledge that, while the other was a prey 
to a thousand torturing thoughts, he asserted his superi- 
ority by a calmness and coolness of demeanor which, 
while it served his own ends, had the effect of irritating 
Lowry to make some hot-headed retort which would en- 
able him to close the interview with credit to himself, 
and to his adversary’s discomfiture. 

Le Marchant, however, did not reckon on Lowry’s 
power of self-repression. The thought of Catherine 
saved him from any rash outburst of anger which would 
place it in Le Marchant ’s power to turn him ignomini- 
ously from the house, with his mission unfulfilled. 

“ My object in intruding in Mr. Dallas’ house,” began 
Lowry, temperately, “was not to seek an interview with 
you . I come from Catherine with a message to her fa- 
ther. He will surely not refuse to hear it. My wife is 
ill— and — in great poverty,” he added, with a painful 
effort, “or I should not make any appeal to Mr. Dallas’ 
generosity.” 

Le Marchant’s quick eyes glanced — as the servant’s had 
—rapidly over Lowry’s shabby attire, and his lip curled. 
Then he turned abruptly to where Vivien sat silently 
watching the scene with a puzzled expression on her 
young face. 

“This child is—?” he queried, sharply scrutinizing 
Vivien’s delicate beauty. 

“Catherine’s,” said Lowry, quietly concluding the un- 
finished sentence. 

“I suppose you thought the child would melt her 
grandfather’s hard heart,” said Le Marchant, with a sar- 
castic intonation. 

“I did not for a moment suppose she would soften 
yours," retorted Lowry, quickly. “I know well whose 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


39 


influence has induced Mr. Dallas to refuse all comnjuni- 
cation with his cruelly injured daughter,” he added, bit- 
terly. 

“I presume that you allude tome?” sneered Le Mar- 
chant ; “allow me to tell you that I am too careful of my 
uncle’s interests — ” 

“And of your own,” interpolated Lowry. 

“Quite right. If you wish it, I will be still more ex- 
plicit with you. I am too careful of my oivn interests to 
allow my uncle to be exposed to the unscrupulous arts of 
an adventurer like yourself — or to the whining appeals of 
an undutiful and disobedient daughter.” 

For the moment the innate cruelty of Le Marchant’s 
nature showed itself. The temptation to taunt his rival 
in the hour of his humiliation was too powerful for him. 
It was not often that he allowed his baser qualities to ap- 
pear on the smooth and urbane surface of his character. 
As it was, he felt half ashamed of his brutality as he saw 
a sudden look of repulsion cross Vivien’s gentle little face. 
Poor as her parents were, the child had been tenderly 
reared, and she shrank sensitively at Le Marchant’s 
heartless words. 

Lowry’s pride was too cruelly wounded for him to re- 
ply ; he turned from Le Marchant in silent indignation, 
and, taking Vivien’s hand in his, moved toward the door. 

“Stay a moment,” said Le Marchant, stretching out 
his hand to stop them; “I will not refuse you some pe- 
cuniary help — from my own purse, since my cousin is in 
actual want. But you must not make this a precedent 
for any future appeals either to Mr. Dallas or to me.” 

Le Marchant slowly drew his purse from his pocket, 
and, after some deliberation, held a couple of sovereigns 
out to Lowry with the magnanimous air of one perform- 
ing an act of munificent generosity. 

Lowry stared at him in speechless astonishment. 
Heartless as he knew Le Marchant to be, he had not 
thought him capable of this crowning insult. The pitiful 
smallness of the sum offered added a thousand-fold to 
the affront. 

For the moment, his just indignation got the better of 


40 LIKE LUCIFER. 

prudence. He struck away the hand which held the sov- 
ereigns with a fierce and bitter oath, and hurried from 
the room and from the house. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE DARK ANGEL. 

How far impulse may safely be trusted as a guide is a 
moot-point ; but it undoubtedly rules many of our ac- 
tions, and often determines the future course of our lives. 

Tristram Lowry left the house in Brook Street, re- 
solved to suffer anything, rather than again expose him- 
self to Le Marchant’s insults. 

As he and Vivien turned from the house, the light of a 
street-lamp fell full on the child’s pale, frightened face. 
He reproached himself bitterly for having allowed her 
to witness so painful a scene. Physical weakness, added 
to the severe mental strain of the past hour, had reduced 
him to the lowest ebb of despondency. Look where he 
would, he could see nothing but misery ahead. The fu- 
ture loomed, to his foreboding fancy, even blacker than 
it really was. 

Had he been a man of energy and resource, the worst 
might yet have been averted. But Le Marchant’s taunt s 
had finished the work begun by poverty and misfortune. 
He left the house in Brook Street a broken-hearted, bro- 
ken-spirited man, with but one dull thought in his mind 
—a yearning to lie down anywhere and let death come 
how it would ; for, in whatever form it came, death 
would at least bring him relief from the hopeless misery 
of his lot. How far mere bodily exhaustion and fatigue 
influenced his state of mind, the learned may decide. A 
man need be a philosopher to endure hunger, cold, and 
disappointment with stoical indifference— and Tristram 
Lowry was no philosopher. 

Ill, wretched, sick at heart, he was utterly unfitted to 
meet the new catastrophe which awaited him. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


41 


Lowry and Vivien, after a weary time, reached the 
street where they lived. They hurried past the few mean 
and dirty shops lit by flaring gas, where a crowd of slat- 
ternly women haggled over the fragments of coarse meat 
and stale fish exposed for sale. 

More than one pair of eyes followed them, for many 
were familiar with the tall, thin, wasted figure of the 
broken-down artist, and many a woman’s kind heart — 
and there were many kind hearts in that crowd of rough- 
headed, horny-handed women — softened toward Vivien, 
as they glanced at her pale, anxious little face, and saw 
how cold and weary she looked. 

Lowry never raised his eyes from the pavement, but 
hurried along silent and absorbed. He was still brooding 
bitterly over the failure of his mission. How should he 
tell Catherine that their last hope had failed them? That 
torturing thought filled his mind to the exclusion of all 
other subjects as he reached the house. The front door 
stood open. The one small servant, who, in conjunction 
with the landlady, “did” the work of that crowded lodg- 
ing-house, stood on the doorstep, with her arms akimbo, 
and her dirty cap half off her rough head. There were 
traces of recent tears on her dirt-begrimed cheeks, her 
eyelids were red, and there was an air of portentous so- 
lemnity about her manner. Something had evidently 
happened. 

With a dim foreboding of the truth, Lowry brushed 
past the damsel without stopping to listen to the flood of 
words she was evidently about to pour out. He stumbled 
up the dark, narrow staircase with a half-dazed con- 
sciousness that the most crushing sorrow of his life was 
about to fall on his head. He reached the first landing, 
and paused a moment for breath. 

There was a small oil-lamp burning on the landing, 
and by its flickering yellow flame Vivien saw an expres- 
sion on her father’s face she had never seen before. 

“Papa,” she said, in a terrified whisper, “don’t look 
like that; you frighten me. ” 

Her words brought him to his senses. He looked down 
at the child’s white face, and tried to smile. 


42 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Do I, Vivien?” he said, speaking slowly, and with 
extreme difficulty. “ Come, let us go up to your mother; 
she must think we have been very long away.” 

Their rooms were almost at the top of the house, and 
Lowry toiled painfully up the steep, marrow stairs. His 
breath came in short, sobbing gasps ; great beads of per- 
spiration stood on his forehead ; his eyes were wild and 
much dilated. When he reached the door of his wife’s 
room, he paused again, and leaned against the rickety 
banister. The violence of his emotion had completely 
unnerved him. Before he had fully recovered himself, 
the door facing them opened abruptly, and Mrs. Clagett, 
their landlady, came out hurriedly. 

“Oh, sir, I am so thankful you have come at last ! Mrs. 
Lowry is took worse, poor dear, and — ” 

Here Mrs. Clagett, who was a short, stout woman, 
with a large, pale, unhealthy-looking face, paused for 
breath, and clasped both her fat hands on her broad 
bosom with that demonstrative exhibition of feeling 
characteristic of her class. 

Mrs. Clagett was sincerely attached to her lodgers ; for 
they gave little trouble, and, until the last few weeks, 
had always been punctual to the day in the settlement of 
her weekly bill. Yet she had a morbid pleasure in im- 
parting the bad news. It gave her, what she loved above 
all things — importance. 

Lowry was too stricken by this new trouble to heed the 
landlady’s feelings. He brushed past her, and hurried 
into his wife’s room. 

Catherine was lying in her bed, her head propped up 
by pillows, to ease her labored breathing. One glance 
at her face told Lowry how r much worse she was. She 
looked up eagerly, however, as he entered, and tried to 
raise herself in bed. But the effort was beyond her 
strength ; she fell back half-fainting. 

Lowry hurried to the bedside, and raised her in his 
arms. 

“Tell me- ” panted Catherine, “have you succeeded—? 
Did my father — ?” 

She stopped suddenly. Her eyes searched Tristram’s 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


43 


face. Her question was answered. Slowly the convic- 
tion forced itself upon her mind that his mission had 
failed— that they were, indeed, abandoned to their fate ; 
left to struggle on, if they had the strength,, or perish 
miserably, if they had not. A moan of anguish burst 
from the sick woman’s pale lips, as she stretched out her 
arms and clasped her husband to her bosom. 

“Oh, Tristram ! .... I am cruelly punished. I have 
dragged you down to this misery. You were happy and 
prosperous, until — until — ” 

Here she brdke down utterly. Violent sobs shook her 
emaciated frame, threatening to extinguish the faint 
spark of life which still lingered in her weak body. 

Lowry vainly tried to soothe her. She clung to him 
with a frantic despair, terrifying in one usually so calm. 
She lavished on him the tenderest expressions of her 
love ; she begged his forgiveness in tones that pierced his 
heart. In vain he assured her that her love had been the 
crowning happiness of his life ; that her wifely devotion 
had cheered him through all their trials. She refused to 
be comforted, and, when the first violence of her grief 
subsided, she still wept on, with a quiet, hopeless sorrow 
that Lowry could neither console nor alleviate. 

At last, utterly exhausted by the violence o~f her emo- 
tion, Catherine sank back on her pillows in a state of 
semi-unconsciousness. Her face was so white and so 
strangely still that Tristram’s heart grew heavy with an 
awful dread as he bent over her. Trembling violently, 
he laid his hand on her heart. There was a slight pulsa- 
tion, feeble and fluttering, indeed, but sufficient to assure 
him that life still lingered in that wasted frame. 

“Vivien,” whispered Lowry to the child, who sat si- 
lently watching them with great, wistful eyes, “your 
mother is asleep — tell Mrs. Clagett to keep the house as 
quiet as possible, and beg her to send some one for the 
doctor. I think the crisis is past now — this quiet sleep 
will completely restore her.” 

Vivien left the room to obey, and Lowry again resumed 
his seat at the bedside. 

There are moments when the mind refuses to contem- 


44 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


plate the stern realities of inevitable calamity. Such a 
moment had come to Tristram Lowry. He would not 
read aright the unmistakable signs of approaching death 
in Catherine’s worn face. He clung to hope with des- 
peration. His wife’s life was so bound up in his own 
that his mind could not grasp the possibility of separation. 

All through the night he sat by the bedside with her 
wasted hand in his, watching the pale face on the pillow 
with a painful intensity of gaze — it was as though he 
would keep watch and ward against Death itself. 

The doctor, a busy, overworked man, diad promised 
to look in early in the morning. Mrs. Clagett offered to 
share Tristram’s vigil, but he declined, assuring her that 
“his wife was better — much better;’’ a bulletin which 
that lady heard with a dubious sniff, and an ominous 
shake of the head. 

The slow hours dragged on in the shadowy chamber, 
lighted only by the flickering night-lamp, which, to 
Tristram’s heated fancy, seemed to cast strange, formless, 
mocking shapes on the bare walls. Vivien had been dis- 
missed soon after midnight to their small sitting-room, 
and bidden to go to rest on the shabby, hard sofa. But 
the child’s brain was too full of thought, her quick ears 
too eagerly alert to catch any sound from the sick-room, 
for sleep to be a possibility. She lay broad awake all 
night thinking over the strange events of the day — events, 
to her childish mind, so full of new and startling experi- 
ences. 

As she thought of her mother’s passionate grief, as she 
pondered on the history of the past which she had heard 
from her father’s lips on the previous evening, the quick 
sympathies underlying her reserved and somewhat pass- 
ive exterior were fully aroused, while her quick imagi- 
nation — that strange faculty which gives its possessor as 
much pain as pleasure — was set at work, filling in the 
details of her mother’s story. For the first time she re- 
alized the extent of those early sorrows through which 
her parents had passed. To her ardent fancy the sweet, 
gentle mother she loved so passionately was raised to the 
dignity of a martyr. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


45 


Vivien was, as her father had said, in many ways a 
strange child. At that time her mind was a chaos of 
knowledge and ignorance. She read with avidity every 
book she came across ; but she was almost absurdly de- 
ficient in much that is thought essential to a modern 
young lady’s education. 

Until poverty compelled them to remove to their pres- 
ent quarters, the Lowrys had occupied modest but com- 
fortable lodgings over a second-hand book shop in a pleas- 
anter part of town. Vivien’s childish beauty and quick 
intelligence soon won the heart of the proprietor — a 
crabbed old man with a meek little wife — and she was 
allowed to wander at will through the dirty, dusty old 
rooms, filled from floor to ceiling with books of all sorts 
and sizes. 

The child had an intense yearning after knowledge. 
Her imagination found ample food in the new world of 
books then opened to her. She spent hours among the 
faded, worm-eaten volumes, and, consequently, her child- 
ish brain was richly stocked with a strange collection of 
odd, out-of-the-way wisdom. She was not what is called 
a “bright child,” that is to say, Nature had not gifted her 
with the sharp, superficial readiness which too often 
passes for cleverness, and the extraordinary amount of 
varied knowledge she had acquired during those long 
hours of reading was never suspected by those about her. 

Neither Catherine nor Lowry ever probed the depths of 
their child’s mind (how few parents do !), certainly they 
never guessed the dormant power that lay hidden there, 
waiting for Time to ripen and bring to full perfection. 

From the day on which she heard her mother’s history, 
a new era commenced in Vivien’s life : she began to 
think, and to reason on the events which crowded thick 
upon her. 

The visit to the house in Brook Street had made an in- 
delible impression on her mind. For the first time she 
h£*l seen the passions of Hate and Jealousy aroused. Le 
Marchant’s powerful personality had impressed her with 
involuntary admiration, and yet with a strange, shrink- 
ing dislike she could not analyze. His cruel words to 


46 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


her father had puzzled her, for Lowry had not told her 
of Le Marchant’s aspirations to become his cousin’s hus- 
band. Vivien was therefore at a loss to assign any ade- 
quate motive for his bitter enmity against them. 

Lowry had explained his present position toward 
James Dallas, and had given avarice as the leading prin- 
ciple of Le Marchant’s life; but Vivien, with the quick 
insight into human motives which she already possessed 
in an unusual degree, did not accept this as the true 
mainspring of his conduct. Instinct told her that some 
stronger feeling than self-interest prompted him. 

Vivien had been deeply moved at the sight of her 
mother’s anguish, but with instinctive tact she refrained 
from any open expression of her sympathy. She waited 
patiently until she could be of use, and had noiselessly 
busied herself in putting the sick-room in order, and in 
performing all the small household duties which now fell 
to her share. When she retired at last to her hard couch, 
her young frame was exhausted by bodily fatigue, but 
she was far too anxious to sleep, and the long hours of 
the night passed as slowly and heavily for her as for Tris- 
tram. 

Daylight was struggling in at the windows when Cath- 
erine awoke. 

The cold gray morning light fell on her wasted feat- 
ures, revealing plainly the havoc wrought by sorrow and 
illness. 

As Tristram gazed on his wife’s face, the veil dropped 
from his eyes— the false hopes which had hitherto buoyed 
him up fell from him one by one. At last the truth was 
made plain to him ; at last he knew that the dread fiat had 
gone forth : his wife’s moments on earth were numbered. 

During the hours of darkness the gray shadow of the 
Death Angel’s wing had swept over Catherine’s wan 
face, leaving behind the nameless awful change whi^h 
once seen can never be forgotten. The weary eyes, al- 
ready dim and glazed with the mists of the Dark Valley, 
were turned wistfully toward him. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


47 


“Tristram— my husband-rcome to me,” she panted, 
feebly. 

With the instinctive awe which falls on all, even the 
most callous and least imaginative, in presence of the 
Great Unknown, Lowry knelt down by the bedside. 
Catherine held out her wasted hand, and the thin fingers 
closed round his with a tender, clinging touch. 

“Kiss me, Tristram,” she whispered, feebly; “lam go- 
ing to leave you . . . My love ... we have been very 
happy . . . it is hard . . . very hard . . . to part.” 

Lowry bent down and kissed her in silence. He could 
not speak ; his lips were parched, a spasm clutched his 
throat. Vivien’s quick ear caught the tones of her moth- 
er’s voice ; she entered the room on tiptoe, and silently 
crept to the other side of the bed. She wondered at the 
change in her mother’s face. She had a dim, distant 
idea that something vague and mysterious was about to 
happen; that her pretty, gentle mother was going to 
leave them, never to return. Death was to Vivien only 
a vague abstraction ; she had never been brought face to 
face with the Dark Angel till then. 

Catherine looked round at the sound of a stifled sob 
from the child ; she stretched out her other hand and laid 
it softly on the bowed head with its ruffled golden curls. 

“Vivien,” she said, in the same difficult, panting tones, 

‘ ‘I am going to leave you. Be a good child ... to your 
father . . . promise me to obey him . . . in all things.” 

The child’s face was hidden in the bedclothes, but at 
the sound of her mother’s voice she lifted her head and 
looked straight into the dying woman’s face. 

“I promise,” she said, so earnestly that Lowry was 
roused from his own overwhelming grief. Even at that 
supreme moment the expression of intensity on Vivien’s 
face startled him. 

Catherine looked at the child’s earnest face, at the 
clear, steadfast eyes shining out like stars from the shad- 
owy darkness of the room, and a smile like a gleam of 
sunshine fluttered across her lips. Then she turned to her 
husband. The fixity of his gaze terrified her ; she dreaded 
some wild outburst of grief. 


48 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Tristram,” she said, laying her hand tenderly on his, 
“when . . . when I am gone . . . try to be brave . . . 
for the child’s sake.” 

Tristram was not a strong man either mentally or phys- 
ically ; he sank helplessly under this new sorrow. Bury- 
ing his face in his hands, he burst into a flood of tears, 
and sobbed aloud. His manhood had utterly forsaken 
him. 

“Oh! Tristram . . . try to bear it ...” panted the 
poor wife, gazing first at him and then at Vivien. 

The child seemed to understand her mother’s thought ; 
she resolutely choked back the sobs which rose in her 
throat, and crept to her father’s side. 

“Papa,” she whispered, laying her hand lightly on his 
shoulder. ‘ ‘ Papa ! ’ ’ 

The word and the touch had a marvelous effect on 
Lowry ; something of Vivien’s wonderful power of self- 
control was communicated to him. 

For one awful moment his reason had tottered; it 
seemed as if the “silver cord” would snap under the ter- 
rible mental strain. That wild outburst of weeping gave 
no relief to the anguish which gnawed him : but Vivien’s 
voice and Vivien’s touch calmed his frenzy, the gaze of 
her clear eyes dissipated the lurid mists which clouded 
his brain. He lifted his head and looked his child full in 
the face. 

Vivien was deadly pale, but her eyes still looked stead- 
ily into his. All the strength and all the purity of her 
soul were called forth in that supreme moment ; and not 
in vain. Lowry slowly rose from his knees, and stood 
erect before her. Outwardly, at least, he was composed. 
But there was no resignation in his heart. His soul was 
full of bitterness, full of rebellion ; but he was no longer 
mad : he could think coherently and act calmly. 

Catherine saw the change in him. She smiled, and 
tried to raise herself in bed. It was the last flickering of 
life in that feeble body. The awful moment was at hand. 
The difficult breathing grew yet more painful and la- 
bored ; the gray shade on her face ; the clammy moisture 
on her forehead, warned the watchers that the end was 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


40 


near. The dying woman’s breath was drawn slowly, 
slowly, like deep sighs, with long, agonized pauses be- 
tween. Life was ebbing fast away. 

But, on the very threshold of eternity, her spirit paused 
— her thoughts turned backward to earth. 

“Tristram — my child — Vivien. ” 

Her last breath was spent in the utterance of those 
words — and, with them, Catherine Lowry’s gentle spirit 
fled. 


CHAPTER VI. 

YM VICTIS! 

When great calamity falls on a human being, it will 
sometimes do much for the man or woman who suffers ; 
for sorrow is a great, if not a popular educator. It enno- 
bles and purifies a character that has any virility or 
power of endurance. 

But Tristram Lowry’s mind was singularly deficient in 
the patient strength that braces itself to face a crushing 
grief. He sank under his burden of sorrow without an 
effort. With Catherine his last hope died — life had lost 
its only incentive to continued struggle. He loved Viv- 
ien, but to him she seemed still only a child ; and he 
never rightly understood her. He had little of the neces- 
sary penetration, and none of the sympathetic insight 
into character which would have enabled him to grasp 
the hidden depths of her nature. He suffered her to creep 
to his side, and wind her arms about his neck ; but he 
listened to her words of comfort with half-stupid indif- 
ference. His brain felt numb. He could not clearly 
understand what she said. He only knew that she was 
whispering something about her mother; something 
about the promise she (Vivien) had made to love her 
father all her life. 

Lowry stared vacantly at the child’s white, frightened 
face, and then his eyes wandered away to the empty chair 
pushed aside in a corner — the chair where Catherine used 
to.sit and work. 


50 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


So the heavy days passed until after the funeral, and 
Lowry slowly realized that his wife’s beloved presence 
was gone forever from his life. 

During those strange, awful days, when Catherine’s 
marble face, wearing the ineffable dignity and serenity 
of death, was not yet hidden from his sight, Tristram sat 
silent and tearless by his dead wife’s side. For days he 
neither ate nor slept. Once only had he roused himself : 
when Vivien approached the coffin to lay a simple cross 
of snowdrops, given by Mrs. Clagett, on her mother’s 
breast. As the child stood there, Tristram looked up, and 
fixed his wild, bloodshot eyes on her face. 

“Child,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “remember who 
killed her — Some day you must avenge her death — re- 
member.” 

His tones were low, but his eyes were full of such vin- 
dictive hate that Vivien shuddered, and looked away 
from him to the peaceful face of her dead mother. 

Lowry’s eyes followed Vivien’s, but the heavenly se- 
renity of that marble visage did not soothe his perturbed 
brain. He could not forgive the man who had been the 
indirect cause of her death. But, after that one outburst 
of the slumbering fire in his breast, Tristram sank back 
into his former state of hopeless, helpless misery. 

The day after the funeral, however, he appeared to 
rouse himself ; he suddenly rose from his chair and took 
up his hat. 

“Are you going out, papa?” asked Vivien, timidly — 
“if so, may I go with you?” 

“No.” 

The curt answer was uttered in a harder tone than 
Tristram had ever used toward her before, and Vivien’s 
sensitive nature was wounded. Tears sprang to her eyes, 
but Lowry was too wrapped in his own bitter thoughts 
to heed them. Grief had made him selfish. Vivien had 
suffered acutely during the terrible days after her moth- 
er’s death, but she suffered silently. No one guessed the 
intensity of her sorrow, for, child as she was, she bore 
her grief with a calm, uncomplaining heroism which 
roused the wonder of Mrs. Clagett and her satellites. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


51 


But Lowry’s wild, rebellious anguish frightened her ; 
she felt so helpless in the face of his silent, brooding mis- 
ery. Her heart was very heavy as he turned and left the 
room without vouchsafing her another word. She list- 
ened to his slow, heavy footfall on the stairs, heard the 
door close behind him, and then for the first time a sense 
of utter . loneliness and desolation conquered her brave 
spirit. She threw herself on the ground by her mother’s 
chair, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs. 

When he left the house, Lowry walked aimlessly on 
for some minutes without object or purpose: he only 
longed for air and movement as a relief to the thoughts 
which crowded his overwrought brain. 

It was a raw, cold day, and the short afternoon was 
rapidly closing in. Tristram’s coat was thin and thread- 
bare, but he did not feel the chilling air ; mental emotion 
had conquered mere physical sensation. A slight rain 
began to fall, but the miserable, haggard-faced man 
never paused in his rapid walk through the dismal streets. 
He trudged doggedly on, with bent head, and hands 
thrust deep in his pockets. 

Now and again, as he passed a lighted gas-lamp, a 
passer-by stared wonderingly at his white face and wild 
bright eyes, but every one was too bent on his own pur- 
suits, either of business or pleasure, to give more than a 
passing thought to the wretched, half-mad creature who 
flitted past in the winter dusk. 

Indeed, the denizens of this huge, overgrown metro- 
politan city are pretty well hardened to such sights. Pov- 
erty and starvation, with their train of attendant hor- 
rors, are too well known among us. The rich and happy 
were too thoughtless to heed or even to note his woful 
plight, while those who had a personal acquaintance 
with want and crime were hardened into indifference. 
Why should they stretch forth a rescuing hand to one 
who was not one whit more wretched than themselves? 
What if their fellow-sufferer had once been a gentleman 
—for Lowry in the hour of his greatest misery never 
quite lost the look and manner of one gently born — was 
that a reason why he should be pitied? Was it not fair 


52 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


that one of the hated class above them should know 
something of the bitterness of poverty, some of the slow 
tortures of starvation? 

And so Tristram Lowry sped on to his doom, and no 
friendly hand was outstretched to save him. 

He wandered on for some hours through the wretched 
streets of Lambeth and Southwark ; he passed unmolest- 
ed through many a rookery inhabited by the very dregs 
of the population, dens of iniquity where it was unsafe 
to venture without a couple of policemen. It seemed as 
if he would sound the deepest depths of human wretched- 
ness, as if in the bitterness of his soul he would gaze on 
sufferings more cruel than his own, as if he derived a 
certain savage satisfaction in the contemplation of fallen 
and corrupt humanity. 

Then he crossed Westminster Bridge, and bent his 
steps toward the more fashionable parts of town. His 
mood had changed ; he wished to look once more on the 
scenes among which his happier days had been passed. 
Memory had wandered back to the careless, joyous life 
he had led in his student days — that bright period of 
youth when life seemed to promise so fair. 

Lowry smiled to himself as he trudged along the famil- 
iar streets ; he remembered as if it were yesterday the 
day on which he brought Catherine home to that tiny 
villa near the Regent’s Park — the very ideal of a bridal 
home, with its climbing roses and ivy, its trim garden 
and shady veranda. How happy they had been there for 
a few brief months, before ill-luck and then misfortune 
befell them ! 

He sighed heavily, and the smile faded from his lips. 
Dark thoughts again took possession of his soul. Cather- 
ine was dead — dead for want of the comforts which 
money can buy. He ground his teeth together at the 
thought. He spoke Bernard Le Marchant’s name aloud 
with a bitter imprecation. Had he crossed his enemy’s 
path at that moment, the wild desperation, the mad 
thirst for vengeance which filled his soul would have 
prompted him to commit a crime. He hated Le Mar- 
chant with a fierce and bitter hatred ; he longed to re- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


53 


venge Catherine's death ; he would have taken Le Mar- 
chant’s life without compunction or mercy in his present 
mood. 

He clinched his hands, in impotent fury ; the sense of 
his utter powerlessness maddened him. Would the hour 
of reckoning ever come? Would a just God punish and 
avenge? Lowry walked on at random, muttering to him- 
self as he went. He felt no weariness of body, though 
he had now been a-foot for many hours. 

The heavy strokes of “Big Ben” telling out the hour of 
midnight fell on his ear, and roused him somewhat. He 
had unconsciously wandered back to the neighborhood 
of the river. The air blew coldly from the water — a bit- 
tef , chilling blast that made itself felt even to his blunted 
physical perceptions. He shivered slightly as he turned 
along the Embankment. He had no thought of seeking 
his home — home, the word had no signification for him 
now. The confinement of four walls would be intolera- 
ble to him in his present mood. The stillness and solitude 
of the broad, deserted thoroughfare soothed his fevered 
brain. 

He crossed the road, leaned over the stone coping of 
the parapet, and gazed down at the dark, swiftly running 
stream. To his perturbed mind there was something- 
lulling, something vaguely soothing and consolatory in 
the steady onward flow of the water. It was like a pleas- 
ant, friendly voice speaking to him in the silent darkness 
of the night. 

He looked up at the sky. Not a star was visible — a 
dense, murky blackness covered the whole broad arch of 
heaven. But over London there hung a veil of blurred 
light, and the yellow sparks of the distant gas-lamps 
wound along the river bank in a long, undulating vista. 
Everything was black, misty, vague, except those specks 
of flame and that luminous haze. 

Tristram looked up at the black sky for a moment, and 
then resumed his objectless wandering to and fro. Bodily 
weakness was asserting itself at last. The feverish, un- 
natural strength given him by the very poignancy of his 
mental suffering, suddenly gave way. He stumbled on 


54 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


slowly and painfully until he reached Waterloo Bridge. 
Here he halted. A vague, half -formed idea flitted 
through his troubled brain. He knew that he ought to 
cross the river — some one awaited him on the other side, 
who, he could not remember. Who was it? 

Lowry put his hand to his head and tried to think. No ; 
it was useless ; memory had given way under the terrible 
strain of the past week. Vivien’s name — the very fact of 
her existence — had faded from his mind. That chapter 
of his life was a blank. 

Catherine? — yes, he remembered Catherine. Perhaps 
it was she who awaited him on the other side of the 
river. He turned on to the bridge and walked some few 
paces ; then he paused irresolutely. As he did so, the 
soothing murmur of the river again caught his ear — its 
low, monotonous voice had again a strangely soothing 
effect on him. 

He went to the side of the bridge, and leaned over the 
parapet. There was no thought of self-destruction in his 
mind : he only wished to hear the musical ripple of the 
river as it ran swiftly on seaward — it soothed and at the 
same time fascinated him. Leaning both arms on the 
stone coping, he gazed down at the dark water. 

To his heated fancy the indistinguishable murmur of 
sound had taken a voice — a meaning. The river was 
speaking to him. He listened — listened with straining 
ears and bated breath — to what it said : 

“Here, in my bosom, is rest — rest — rest. Many have 
sought — and found it here !” 

The wretched man repeated the words in a dreamy, 
half-frightened whisper. What did they mean? 

“Rest — rest — rest,” said the river. 

Rest ! he was very weary — he longed for rest ! Could 
the river give it him? 

He hung over the parapet listening to the luring voice. 
The words rest — rest— rest, were repeated over and over 
again in his burning brain. The river murmured them, 
too, with a rhythmic rise and fall, answering to the swirl 
and gurgle of the black water beneath the bridge. 

Visions, dim and strange, floated before his eyes; 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


55 


bright memories of the past ; his cherished dreams of 
fame ; Catherine in the flush of her young beauty — Cath- 
erine, the love and treasure of his heart ; the happy years 
of their early married life passed before his mind’s eye in 
a long succession of pictures, vivid as reality itself. 

And still the river murmured its refrain, still the lull- 
ing ripple of the water against the stone arches seemed 
to sing a low, alluring song. 

In the midst of the huge city, teeming with life, Lowry 
stood alone, with night and darkness around him, listen- 
ing to the voice of the tempter. 

Rest ! Was not that what he needed most? He leaned 
wearily on the cold stone of the parapet, and rested his 
head on his arms ; but he still listened to the river’s song. 

Suddenly an irresistible impulse seized him. He sprang 
on to the parapet, and stood erect on the stone-coping, a 
black figure against the dark sky. His wild, wide eyes 
- were fixed on vacancy ; his ears were strained to catch 
the sounds borne to him by the night wind ; his arms 
outstretched as though he would grasp some vague, im- 
palpable spirit-form. 

The burden of the river’s song had changed. As the 
water swirled onward, it called to him : 

* 1 Come — c ome — come. ’ ’ 

And it seemed to him that it was Catherine’s voice that 
called. 

‘ Catherine ! Catherine ! ’ ’ 

The wind caught and carried away his wild cry, but it 
reached no human ear. A vision— bright and radiant as 
a drgam of heaven— rose before him— a vision of Cather- 
ine. It smiled, it beckoned him. 

There was a plunge, a half-smothered cry, a sullen 
plash— and the river swept rapidly onward to the sea, 
carrying its prey in its dark bosom. 


56 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


BOOK THE SECOND. 

LADY YILLEBOIS’ PROTEGEE. 

I lived with visions for my company 
Instead of men and women, years ago, 

And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know 
A sweeter music than they played to me. 

— E. B. Browning. 


CHAPTER I. 

SYBIL LE MARCHANT. 

The village of Dalthorpe lay deep in the heart of one 
of the fairest Midland counties. It was one of the few 
spots within a radius of a hundred miles of the Modern 
Babylon in which the perfect quiet, the sleepy idleness 
of country life has been preserved, in spite of the inroad 
of steam and iron, which, during the past forty years, 
has changed not only the outward aspect of the country, 
but has effected a complete revolution in the social rela- 
tions of its inhabitants. 

The busy stream of life flowed past Dalthorpe without 
disturbing the even, placid calm of its every-day exist- 
ence. Express trains dashed past the sleepy little station 
with a shrieking and roaring like mighty, panting mon- 
sters ; but the mild-eyed rustics were oblivious ok the 
busy, striving, struggling world which lay beyond their 
peaceful village. For the most part, they led simple, 
honest, industrious lives. 

Of course, even in that small community, there was 
the usual leaven of dishonesty and petty lying common 
to human nature ; but the majority were hardworking, 
upright folk, who sent their children to Sunday-school, 
and looked up to “th’ passon” with becoming respect. 

The village itself consisted of a long, irregular street, 
in which the houses lay far back from the road, each in 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


its own neat garden. These houses, or rather cottages, 
were well-built and drained, yet picturesque and home- 
like. 

Squire Le Marchant was a good, if somewhat severe 
and masterful, landlord. He spent money freely, but ju- 
diciously, exacting the full amount of value for his out- 
lay. Though not unpopular, he was, in a measure, looked 
upon as an interloper on the lands that had belonged to 
the Dallases from time immemorial ; but Le Marchant 
was resolved to live down all such prejudice. 

Since James Dallas’ death five years ago, Le Marchant 
had taken up his residence permanently at Dallas Towers 
with his family. During those years he had done his 
best to win the good opinion of his neighbors. In this 
laudable endeavor he was most ably seconded by his wife 
and daughter, both of whom soon won the hearts of the 
villagers — the one by her gifts of coal and beef in winter- 
time, and sundry other seasonable charities, the other by 
the simple, unaffected interest she took in the people 
themselves. Mrs. Le Marchant ’s health was too delicate 
for her to take an active part in distributing the various 
good things which found their way to Dalthorpe from 
the Towers, and on her daughter, therefore, fell the onus 
of the work. 

It was only by slow degrees, however, that Mr. Le 
Marchant won some meed of praise .from his tenants. 

In spite of James Dallas’ notorious harshness toward 
his unhappy daughter — the story of whose sorrows was 
still talked of in the village by the sober, middle-aged 
people who remembered Catherine in the prime of her 
beauty — his memory was still beloved not only in Dal- 
thorpe, but throughout Grasshire. When Bernard Le 
Marchant took possession of Dallas Towers, “the county” 
determined to cut him. But it soon got abroad that his 
wife was the youngest daughter of a peer— only a penni- 
less, scampish Irish peer, it is true, but still the prefix of 
Honorable to Mrs. Le Marcliant’s name made her at least 
“knowable,” and many of the most exclusive dames 
within driving distance of the Towers called on her forth- 
with. These tentative visits were in nearly every case 


58 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


followed by invitations to dinner, for the new arrival 
was pronounced to be a most agreeable, ladylike woman 
— “not pretty, you know, but pleasant and well-bred.” 

This was the general verdict, and Mrs. Le Marchant 
was duly admitted, without further question, into the 
sacred inner circle of the best society in the county. 

The master of Dallas Towers, though very far from 
being equally popular, was, thanks to his wife’s tact, re- 
ceived everywhere with a certain show of cordiality. He 
had still the reputation of being “an adventurer” to live 
down, and he was secretly disliked by many. There had 
been ugly rumors of his share in Catherine Dallas’ expul- 
sion from her father’s house, unpleasant whispers that it 
was entirely through his influence that James Dallas was 
induced to disinherit her ; but, as the months and years 
went on, these rumors gradually died away, and, by the 
time Sybil had grown up to womanhood, her father was 
firmly established in the position of a country^gentleman 
of large fortune, if not of ancient name. 

Sybil was an only child, and, in the natural course of 
things, would be her father’s sole heiress. She was, 
therefore, a most desirable match, and already scheming, 
anxious mothers with grown-up sons were on the alert to 
secure her for all the dances and tennis-parties which 
relieve, in a measure, the tedium of country-house life. 

On the brilliant June morning when the reader is in- 
vited to make her acquaintance, Sybil was returning 
through the village to Dallas Towers after spending some 
hours among ‘her people,” as she loved to call them ; for 
Sybil was quite a Lady Bountiful in her way, and the 
greater part of her pocket-money was spent in alleviating 
the very moderate amount of distress on her father’s es- 
tate. A small basket hung on her arm ; it was empty, 
the contents having been transferred to her various pen- 
sioners, and she held in her hand a bunch of homely 
flowers— a gift from one of her grateful villagers. 

Appearances notwithstanding, she was not of the type 
of womanhood wrongly associated by many people with 
acts of charity. Let me hasten to say that she was not 
only young— eighteen at most— but singularly pretty to 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


59 


boot. Most people have a very natural prepossession in 
favor of youth and beauty. Ugly worth may be very 
estimable, but it is an incontrovertible fact that a fair 
and youthful face readily influences us in its owner’s fa- 
vor. 

How far Sybil’s unbounded popularity in Dalthorpe 
was due to her charming face and winning manner it is 
impossible to say, but certainly a smile of recognition or 
a word of friendliness from Sybil was very highly valued 
by the villagers. Even old Ned Crake, the grave-digger, 
who was known as the surliest and most ungrateful old 
man in that part of the world, allowed his harsh features 
to relax in a grin of genuine admiration as she passed. 

“I believe as Miss Sybil grows purtier every day,” he 
growled out, following her graceful figure with his dim 
old eyes. 

The love of the beautiful is not the exclusive possession 
of the man of education. Although his power of expres- 
sion may be strictly limited, the unlettered hind may 
have a very keen appreciation of the supreme charm of 
feminine grace — perhaps, even, his rude nature may have 
greater capacities for wonder and admiration than that 
of the man of higher social standing, reared in the nil 
admirari school, whose shallow soul is incapable of hon- 
estly expressed admiration for any created thing. 

Sybil Le Marehant certainly deserved old Ned’s genu- 
ine, if not polished, eulogium. She was small and slight 
— her detractors would have said insignificant— in stat- 
ure ; but her figure was so rounded in outline and so 
perfectly proportioned that the beholder watched her sup- 
ple, graceful movements with delight. Sybil’s eyes were 
large, dark, and full of a wonderful dewy softness ; they 
were perhaps the only really beautiful feature in the 
rosy, dimpled prettiness of her face. She had, too, an 
abundant quantity of curly brown hair, which defied all 
her efforts to keep it smooth and tidy. Hers was an em- 
inently feminine type of prettiness; beautiful, in the 
strict sense of the word, she was not, for her small feat- 
ures were far from perfect ; but she was, nevertheless, a 
very fair and lovable maiden; and right worthy of a 


60 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


good man’s love, for she had a very kind, gentle, wom- 
anly heart, full of pure and generous impulses. 

It was a glorious summer day. The air was full of the 
subtle aroma of wild-roses and new-mown hay. High up 
in the unclouded blue sky the larks sang their clear, thrill- 
ing, gladsome songs “at heaven’s gate.” As Sybil’s 
brown eyes followed the upward flight of the small, in- 
significant-looking bird, something within her responded 
to its song. She loved all country sights and sounds, but 
of all others she loved to watch a lark rise “from its 
moist cabinet” aloft into the sunny azure of the summer 
sky, and, flinging its rapturous notes around and about 
until the air throbbed to its melody, mount higher and 
higher until it became literally a “sightless song.” 

Sybil thought that soaring song the most beautiful mu- 
sic she had ever heard — it was so full of joy. 

Her life had been as cloudless as that clear summer 
sky to which her eyes were then lifted. She had, hither- 
to, seen only the bright side of things, and her sympa- 
thies were all for happy sights and sounds. She had not 
sufficient imagination to realize all the sorrow and bitter- 
ness that lay outside the limited sphere in which her own 
life was passed. She knew, of course, that there were 
people in the world who were poor and unhappy, and 
even in such a quiet, orderly village as Dalthorpe there 
were stories of sin and sorrow which sometimes reached 
her ears ; but poverty and crime were to her mere ab- 
stract ideas, she had no definite notion of the application 
of the words to the lives of men and women. 

In Dalthorpe, if people were in great distress, especially 
in winter-time, help was always forthcoming from their 
richer neighbors ; actual want was quite unknown. 

When she watched the lark’s upward flight, Sybil 
thought its song a fit emblem of all the joy and peace on 
earth rising to give thanks to the great Omnipotence 
above. She breathed a little sigh as she quickened her 
pace again ; in her present mood she rather dreaded the 
ordeal of the formal luncheon at the Towers with her 
father and mother. She would infinitely have preferred 
dawdling away the afternoon in the park, but she knew 




LIKE LUCIFER. 


61 


that rigid punctuality was the rule at Dallas Towers, and 
she dared not infringe the unwritten law which decreed 
that nothing short of actual illness should excuse the non- 
appearance at meals of any member of the family. 

Bernard Le Marchant was a born autocrat, and his wife 
and daughter submitted to his iron rule without a mur- 
mur. Sybil stood in considerable awe of her father, and 
one of his cold, displeased glances made her both unhappy 
and afraid. She could not understand either his habit- 
ual taciturnity, or his love of solitude. Many a time she 
longed to win a loving word or smile from him, but he 
rarely unbent, and the poor child was fain to be content 
with a very limited amount of paternal tenderness. 

Sybil looked at her watch, and, quickening her rapid 
walk to a run, sped through the entrance-gates and across 
the park with the lightness and fleetness of a deer, reach- 
ing the house just as the first luncheon-gong was clang- 
ing through the wide, echoing Gothic hall. 

“ Only five minutes to change my dress and smooth my 
hair,” was hef mental exclamation, as she ran upstairs 
and entered her own pretty suite of rooms. She dared not 
face her mother unless her toilet was of the freshest and 
her hair as smooth as its inherent curliness would permit. 

She did not ring for her maid, but hurriedly threw off 
her hat and bustled about to such purpose that in less 
than five minutes she tripped down the wide staircase 
radiant in the freshest and crispest of muslin gowns, her 
bright, rippling brown hair gathered into a massive knot 
at the back of her shapely head ; the only remaining 
trace of her rapid run being a slight deepening of the 
rose-tint on her dimpled cheeks. 

Bernard Le Marchant, cold, hard, scheming man of 
the world as he was, could not repress a momentary thrill 
of fatherly pride as his eyes rested on his pretty daughter. 

“You look unusually bright this morning, Sybil,”, he 
said, in a more gregarious tone than was usual with him. 

Sybil smiled, showing as she did so a very perfect set of 
the smallest and pearliest teeth imaginable. 

“She really is charmingly pretty.” was Le Marchant’s 


62 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


mental comment on his daughter’s appearance, as they 
sat down to luncheon. 

Mrs. Le Marchant was a tall, slight, fair-haired woman, 
looking far younger than her age, which was in reality 
forty-five. She “owned to” thirty-eight, and people gen- 
erally believed her, as she was one of those slim-waisted, 
delicate-featured blondes who retain a certain youthful- 
ness of appearance far into middle-age. Her dress was 
always of the costliest description, and yet in perfect 
taste. In one thing, at least, Bernard Le Marchant was 
a model husband — he never grumbled at the length of his 
wife’s milliner’s bills, and that lady fully availed herself 
of his consideration. 

What Selina Le Marchant’s object in life would have 
been without the all-absorbing study of dress it is difficult 
to say. She simply lived for the “plaiting of hair and 
the putting on of apparel.” Sybil was a very dutiful 
daughter, but, as she was not quite devoid of brains, she 
longed for something better than the eternal discussions 
on the changes of fashion, which formed the principal 
subject of Mrs. Le Marchant’s conversation. She wearied 
of the everlasting topic of dress ; the criticisms of 
Worth’s latest chef-d'oeuvre; the endless consultations 
over the cut of her own and her mother’s gowns — in 
short, of the whole arcana of the divinity, Fashion, be- 
fore whom so many women bow down in slavish adora- 
tion. 

“Dear me, Sybil, how flushed you are,” remarked Mrs. 
Le Marchant, in her slow, languid tones, as she glanced 
disapprovingly at her daughter’s brilliant complexion. 
“You have been walking fast in the sun, as usual. When 
will you learn to take care of your complexion?” 

“Never, mamma, I think,” replied Sybil, laughing. “I 
am too fond of living out of doors. ’ ’ 

“ Complexion ! Pshaw,” sneered Le Marchant, with a 
contemptuous glance at his wife’s delicate blonde face, 
which was not quite innocent of powder, “Sybil looks 
the picture of health. I, for one, don’t admire your 
sickly, lackadaisical young women, who can’t walk 
half a mile without making endless fuss— and yet can go 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


63 


spinning round a ballroom for six or seven hours at a 
stretch, night after night, during a whole season. 1 * 

Mrs. Le Marchant drew her thin lips together, but 
made no retort. She was used to her husband’s frequent 
ebullitions of temper, and made it her invariable rule to 
bear his bitter speeches in silence. In the early years of 
her married life she had attempted to assert herself, but 
she had long ago relinquished all idea of holding her own 
in the matrimonial duet ; and, as it is difficult to quarrel 
with a woman who keeps her temper and holds her 
tongue, Mr. and Mrs. Le Marchant were generally held 
to be a model couple. 

Bernard was a politic man : before the world, and in 
society, he treated his wife with scrupulous politeness 
and consideration ; and Selina was far too well-bred, as 
well as far too wise, to endanger her position in the coun- 
ty by any show of the rancor she secretly felt toward her 
husband. Indeed, her lot was not without its allevia- 
tions. Before her marriage, she had been one of a large 
family of daughters, and in those pre-nuptial days she 
had had but a very limited command of money where- 
with to gratify her somewhat extravagant tastes ; con- 
sequently she valued her present wealth to the fullest 
extent. 

As has been already intimated, Le Marchant was lav- 
ish in money matters ; and Selina accepted her gilded 
bondage with becoming resignation. Their marriage 
had been one of interest on both sides, and it was neither 
more nor less happy than such unions generally are. Ber- 
nard had gained a wife with the prefix of “Honorable” 
to her name, and thus secured an entree into society; 
and Selina had exchanged the poverty of her paternal 
home for luxury, wealth, and the enviable position of 
mistress of Dallas Towers. 

“Have you given orders about the rooms I mentioned?” 
asked Mr. Le Marchant, abruptly, when luncheon was 
half over. 

“Yes,” replied his wife, in her quiet, even, emotionless 
tones; “I saw the housekeeper myself. What time do 
you expect Mr. Ormerod to arrive?” 


64 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Sybil looked up in some surprise. She had heard noth- 
ing of the expected advent of a guest, and visitors were 
not numerous at Dallas Towers. Her curiosity was 
aroused partly by the circumstance itself, partly by the 
unusual expression on her father’s face. 

Le Marchant glanced quickly at Sybil from under his 
dark, straight brows, and then turned to his wife. 

“About five o’clock or so. Be in the drawing-room 
with Sybil to receive him. ’ ’ 

Selina made a slight gesture of assent, and rose to leave 
the table, exchanging a rapid and significant glance with 
her husband as she glided gracefully from the room. 


CHAPTER II. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 


Sybil followed her mother, wondering not a little what 
the new arrival would be like. In her quiet life a new 
face was an event, and her world was so small that she 
sometimes longed for a little variety, especially during 
those bright months of early summer, when most of the 
county people were in town for the season. Sybil was 
not to be presented until the next year, when she would 
be fairly launched on the frothy sea of London society. 
So far her sole dissipation had been an occasional carpet- 
dance, a tennis-party, or some such mild festivity. 

The two ladies crossed the noble Gothic hall, and re- 
tired to the cool seclusion of the great drawing-room— a 
magnificent, many-windowed apartment running nearly 
the whole width of the facade — the very room that, 
twenty years ago, had been brightened by Catherine Dal- 
las’ girlish loveliness. 

The room retained some portion of the furniture of that 
date, but when Selina Le Marchant came to the Towers 
as its mistress, she had effected a complete revolution in 
its arrangement and in all the minor points of decoration. 
She at once pronounced the brilliarA-hued carpet— which, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


65 


twenty years since, had been considered a very marvel 
of beauty— to be in execrable taste, and as Bernard had 
every confidence in his wife’s judgment in such matters, 
and allowed her carte blanche in monetary affairs, Mrs. 
Le Marchant had completely metamorphosed the drawing- 
room. It was now a model of aesthetic ornamentation. 

Selina’s good taste, however, made her retain the 
carved tables and curious Indian cabinets, the rare old 
china and priceless bronzes that had accumulated at Dal- 
las Towers during the reign of its former owners. Those 
dead and gone Dallases must have been people of taste, 
judging from the heterogeneous collection of curiosities 
— the spoils of many climes and countries — which Mrs. 
Le Marchant had unearthed from various hidden recep- 
tacles, and scattered through the noble suite of rooms in 
which she loved to entertain her guests on the rare occa- 
sions when her husband and she entertained their friends 
at a formal dinner-party. 

“Who is this Mr. Ormerod, mamma?” asked Sybil, 
when she had seated herself in her favorite low easy- 
chair, and taken up the elaborate piece of art-needlework 
with whicli she generally occupied the hours passed in 
Mrs. Le Marchant ’s society. 

Sybil had a delightful nest of her own upstairs, where 
she retired when her mother’s vapid conversation proved 
too much even for her dutiful affection. During certain 
hours of the afternoon, Selina required her daughter’s 
presence in the drawing-room, and it must be confessed 
that Sybil thought those afternoon hours the most trying 
and wearisome in the twenty-four. 

It was so difficult to find a topic outside the eternal one 
of dress that could rouse Mrs. Le Marchant’s interest. 
She, therefore, seized on the subject of the expected 
guest as one likely to supply them with small-talk for 
that afternoon, at least. 

“Mr. Ormerod is a friend of your father’s,” replied 
Mrs. Le Marchant, looking at Sybil’s pretty face as she 
sat over her work, much as her husband had done when 
the expected visitor was first mentioned. 

“I have never heard papa speak of him before. Is he 


66 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


an old friend?” Sybil asked, looking up for an instant, 
and then dropping her eyes on her work. 

“No. I believe your father only made his acquaint- 
ance during his last visit to town. But he has a very 
high opinion of Mr. Ormerod, and is anxious to show him 
every attention during his stay here,” said Mrs. Le Mar- 
chant, with the air of one who repeats a lesson that has 
been carefully learned by rote. “Mr. Ormerod is con- 
sidered a most promising young man in the political 
world, and your father takes a great interest in his 
future.” 

Sybil arched her dark eyebrows in some surprise. This 
extraordinary interest in a mere acquaintance surprised 
her not a little. Her father was not generally so willing 
to extend the hand of good-fellowship to strangers. 

Sybil was silent for some minutes, and stitched away 
industriously at her work. Her mother watched her 
curiously from beneath her long, light eyelashes. 

Mrs. Le Marchant’s eyes were of a peculiarly pale-gray 
color, and their expression was often unpleasant, espe- 
cially if she were vexed or angry, when they emitted a 
light, cold and chilling as steel, that suggested cruelty in 
their owner. They were neither cold nor cruel as they 
rested on Sybil’s fresh, young face, only inquisitive and 
a little hard. 

Selina’s shallow, vain, egotistical soul was incapable of 
much maternal affection. When Sybil was a child, her 
mother had a certain fondness for her ; she looked on her 
as a pretty plaything — an animated doll which she could 
dress according to the latest fashionable aesthetic craze, 
and who was scarcely on a higher level than her pet Mal- 
tese ; but, as Sybil grew up to womanhood, her mother 
found her very much in the way ; the girl’s fresh, rosy 
beauty made her own faded charms seem even yet more 
imsses. 

Sybil was such an affectionate, simple-minded creature 
that she was often puzzled by her mother’s capricious 
moods ; she never guessed the true cause of those fits of 
irritability, and charitably put all such ebullitions of 
temper down to the chronic ill-health which was sup- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


67 


posed to be Mrs. Le Marchant’s normal condition. It is 
true that nothing definite ever ailed that lady, but she 
was a prey to one of those problematical nervous mala- 
dies which must be alleviated by the constant use of a 
jeweled scent-bottle, by the easiest of sofas, and by the 
daintiest fare wherewith to tempt a singularly capricious 
appetite. In short, Mrs. Le Marchant, like many another 
woman who has little occupation or interest in life, was 
always in a state of semi-invalidism, except when some 
small excitement, in the way of a dinner-party or garden- 
party, miraculously cured her ailments. 

During the course of that afternoon Mrs. Le Marchant 
and Sybil talked but little ; the former seemed buried in 
her own thoughts, while Sybil plied her needle industri- 
ously, and let her fancies rove, like butterflies from 
flower to flower, over the possibilities and probabilities 
of the future which lay before her. 

Mrs. Le Marchant glanced more than once at the small 
Sevres clock near her. When it neared the hour of five, 
she rose languidly from her sofa and glided — her move- 
ments were always the perfection of studied grace — to- 
ward one of the windows commanding a view of the 
carriage drive. She listened for a few minutes, and then 
moved back to her place on the sofa. 

“Sybil,” she said, glancing rapidly at a large mirror 
opposite to ascertain that her own toilet was in perfect 
order, ‘ ‘put down your work — there really is no necessity 
for you to stitch away like a seamstress — and do smooth 
that rough, untidy hair of yours,” she added, querulously. 
“I hear carriage- wheels on the drive. Mr. Ormerod will 
be here in less than five minutes.” 


CHAPTER III. 

FELIX ORMEROD. 

The drawing-room door opened, and Mr. Le Marchant 
and his guest entered the room together, the master of 
Dallas Towers having paid Mr. Ormerod the unprece- 


68 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


dented honor of driving over to the station— a distance 
of some two or three miles — to meet him. 

The new arrival was duly presented to the two ladies, 
who each, according to her lights, rapidly formed her 
opinion of their guest. 

“Decidedly a gentleman, and has far better manners 
than most young men of the present day,” was Mrs. Le 
Marchant’s verdict. 

“Not exactly handsome, but has a face I like; I am 
sure he is very clever, and I think he is nice. ’ ’ 

Such was Sybil’s opinion of her father’s guest, and, con- 
siderng the brevity of their acquaintance, it was a very 
just and comprehensive one. 

Felix Ormerod was not handsome, though his face im- 
pressed the beholder with the latent power it indicated, 
and his talents were of a very high order. What that ad- 
jective “nice” exactly conveys to the feminine mind it 
is difficult to say, but if a singularly unembarrassed and 
courteous manner, a pleasant, musical, yet manly voice, 
and a bright smile constitute “nice”-ness, then Felix Or- 
merod certainly deserved the epithet. Much to Sybil’s 
surprise, her father roused himself from his customary 
taciturnity, and talked with much earnestness and ani- 
mation on political subjects. Mr. Ormerod listened with 
polite attention to all that fell from his host’s lips ; but 
his eyes wandered to Sybil’s charming face, and he 
caught himself wishing more than once that he could es- 
cape from Mr. Le Marchant’s eloquence. He would 
much rather have talked to pretty Sybil Le Marchant 
about the last new novel, or heard something of the quiet, 
uneventful life she led. Of late he had been living in an 
atmosphere of politics, and he secretly longed for a little 
relaxation — longed to unbend his mind from the high 
tension at which it had been maintained during the past 
few months. 

Unless a man is thoroughly jaded with the cares of ex- 
istence, there is a very real pleasure in studying a fresh, 
innocent, untutored mind— it is like a fair blank page, on 
which much may hereafter be written either of good or 
evil, but whose virgin whiteness is as yet unsullied. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


69 


As Mr. Le Marchant, however, seemed bent on treating 
his guest to a thorough exposition of his political views, 
Ormerod was fain to be content with watching Sybil’s 
sweet face and graceful figure as she poured out the tea. 
Mrs. Le Marchant had long ago relinquished all active 
service of that kind, and certainly Sybil never appeared 
to better advantage than when presiding over her dainty 
tea-equipage. 

Ormerod noted that she had very long curling lashes, 
and the prettiest imaginable dimple in her chin, and that 
the white hands which poured out his tea were slender 
and delicate, with rosy tips to the taper fingers. He 
thought her charmingly feminine — just such a soft-eyed, 
fresh-faced, lovable creature as a man might think him- 
self fortunate to win for a wife. 

Felix had his own theory on the subject of marriage. 
He did not believe at all in the much-talked-of equality 
of the sexes. His ideal woman was the preternaturally 
innocent, guileless, half-educated, and wholly confiding 
creature who has long been accepted as the type of femi- 
nine perfection, but who is, alas ! rapidly dying out in 
this latter half of the nineteenth century. 

It seemed to Felix — though their acquaintanceship was 
not yet an hour old, and he had had no opportunity of 
studying her closely — that Sybil was a charming speci- 
men of this class. He was determined to seize the very 
first opportunity of drawing her out. But it was impos- 
sible to do this while Mr. Le Marchant plied him with 
questions as to his political faith, and it must be con- 
fessed that he was bored by his host’s conversation. 

Ormerod’s ostensible object in coming to Dallas Towers 
had been to confer with its master on the prospects of his 
becoming a candidate for the representation of Compton 
Magna — a borough in which Le Marchant had considera- 
ble influence — at the next election. It was, therefore, 
somewhat inconsistent in him to be aggrieved at that 
gentleman’s pertinacity in sounding him on political 
subjects. 

Mrs. Le Marchant unconsciously became Ormerod’s 
ally in silencing her husband’s unusual loquacity. She 


70 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


was determined to learn from the former how the Lon- 
don season was progressing ; and she thirsted for some 
of the fashionable gossip she loved. It had been no small 
trial to her to vegetate in the country during that spring 
and early summer. She was resolved that her husband 
should no longer monopolize their guest’s conversation. 

“I feel so shut out from everything this year, ” she said 
plaintively ; ‘ ‘my husband and I spent only a fortnight in 
town after Easter — and so little can be done in a fort- 
night. ’ ’ 

Le Marchant thought, though he did not say so, that a 
great deal of money can be got through by a woman of 
his wife’s expensive tastes, even in that brief period. 

“Really, I am not very competent to give you much 
news,” replied Ormerod. “I go but little into society, 
for I find it impossible to get through serious work after 
a night spent in the close atmosphere of a London draw- 
ing-room. ’ ’ 

“Ah! I have heard you are quite a model to the friv- 
olous young men of the present day,” remarked Mrs. Le 
Marchant, suavely. 

She was under the impression that this doubtful com- 
pliment would flatter her guest’s vanity. She was mis- 
taken. Ormerod had a horror of priggism, and hated the 
idea of ranking as a “model young man” — an epithet 
that would hardly exalt him in the estimation of the 
charming maiden with the brown curling locks and soft, 
dark eyes. He knew that much, at least, of feminine 
human nature. He laughed off his vexation, however, 
and turned to Sybil. 

“You were not in town this season, Miss Le Merchant, 
I think?” he said, by way of a beginning. 

‘'No,’* answered Sybil, shyly glancing up at him. 

His eyes must have betrayed the interest he felt in her ; 
for Sybil blushed vividly as they met hers. 

“Sybil can scarcely be considered as ‘ out ’ yet,” inter- 
rupted her mother, in a tone of vexation. “She will be 
presented next season.” 

“What a pity!” mentally ejaculated Ormerod. “This 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


71 


delightfully fresh young mind will be spoiled at the end 
of it.” 

“I suppose Lady Axelby’s parties were, as usual, a per- 
fect marvel of extravagance and splendor?” said Mrs. 
Le Marchant, with unwonted eagerness. She was deter- 
mined to hold her own in the conversation. 

“Yes,” answered Ormerod, laughing. “In a weak 
moment, I promised Sir Richard to look in for an hour — 
he knows I go out but little — and I paid dearly for my 
temerity. For four mortal hours I was so wedged in a 
mob of people that, unless I had literally fought my way 
out, it was impossible to escape. Shall I ever forget the 
unutterable misery I suffered ! The rooms were so hot ; 
the confusion of tongues rivaled that of the Tower of 
Babel — for you know Lady Axelby prides herself on her 
cosmopolitanism. Added to all this, our hostess had se- 
cured the presence of various ‘lions/ who roared contin- 
uously for our delectation. I really think,” pursued Or- 
merod, warming with his subject, “that, in these days of 
guilds and associations for the promotion of all sorts of 
praiseworthy objects, some one ought to start an Anti- 
Crowding League which shall oblige its members, first to 
calculate the number of people their rooms will hold 
comfortably, and then limit their invitations accord- 
ingly.” 

“ A most brilliant idea,” said Mrs. Le Marchant, seri- 
ously. “It would, at least, give one a chance of appear- 
ing to advantage. Under the present system of over- 
crowding, a really effective gown is quite thrown away. 
Apropos of crushes, Bernard,” she continued, turning 
to her husband with the plaintive sweetness some people 
thought so charming, “ do you remember that dreadful 
evening the season before last? You know Mrs. Asprey 
— the little American people raved about so?” again ad- 
dressing herself to Ormerod, and using her fan vigorous- 
ly, as if the remembrances she invoked were even yet 
too much for her delicate nerves. 

“Yes; I remember her perfectly,” answered Ormerod. 
“She was delightfully original, whatever her faults may 
have been.” 


72 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“No doubt; but I cannot quite forgive her for that 
dreadful evening,” said Selina, passing her hand across 
her forehead. The hand was remarkably white and 
small, and was loaded with rings. Mrs. Le Mareliant’s 
gestures were always effective. “You remember that 
season Mrs. Asprey had quite a small house in Mayfair?” 
she continued, in her low, drawling tones. “A house 
with several tiny rooms leading out of each other : the 
wholo suite might perhaps hold a hundred people. Mrs. 
Asprcn/, however, determined to give an entertainment 
on a large scale ; so she issued invitations to seven hun- 
dred people — I assure you I do not exaggerate. Five 
hundred of them accepted. Can you imagine the result? 
My husband and I never got beyond the foot of the stair- 
case on that eventful night. Behind us were crowds of 
people desperately trying to fight their way past, and the 
staircase itself was hopelessly impassable. There we 
stood helpless. My dress was almost torn from my back ; 
my husband vainly tried to extricate me. We heard 
afterward that the whole street was blocked with car- 
riages, and that people sat in them for hours, and in the 
end were forced to go away without entering Mrs. As- 
prey ’s doors.” 

“Fortunately I was among the lucky two hundred who 
declined Mrs. Asprey ’s. invitation,” laughed Ormerod. 
“I should think she will carry the remembrance of that 
evening’s entertainment with her to her grave.” 

“I know I shall,” retorted Mrs. Le Marchant, sniffing 
languidly at her scent-bottle. “I hear that Mrs. Asprey 
was perfectly furious at the whole affair, and was so un- 
reasonable that she declared she had been sliamefully 
treated — that people blocked the staircase and ivould not 
move.” 

“Are all London parties like that?” asked Sybil, inno- 
cently. “If so, I am afraid I shan’t enjoy them half so 
much as the carpet-dances we have here in Grassliire.” 

“There are some happy exceptions,” replied Ormerod, 
kindly. “I don’t wish to disillusion you. Miss Le Mar- 
chant, but London ballrooms are not all strewn with 
roses. I hope during your season in town that you will 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


73 


meet Lady Villebois ; she is, in my humble opinion, one 
of the most charming old ladies in the world, a real 
grande dame ; she has her eccentricities, of course— as 
nearly all clever and original people have— but she has the 
kindest heart and brightest wit of any woman I know.” 

‘‘I heard from a friend of mine that her latest craze is 
an unprecedented one ; she has taken up some young 
woman of low birth, and adopted her as her daughter. Is 
there any truth in the rumor?” asked Mrs. Le Marchant, 
carelessly. 

“I believe so,” replied Ormerod, gravely, “and I hear 
that Lady Villebois’ protegee is as gifted and well-bred as 
she is beautiful. People are quite enthusiastic about her. 
I have not yet been fortunate enough to see the young- 
lady— she was not visible when I last called at Lady Vil- 
lebois’ delightful house at Chiswick.” 

“I can’t say I believe in people of that sort,” said Mrs. 
Le Marchant, contemptuously ; it vexed her sorely to 
hear another woman praised; “they are generally sly 
and designing. I wonder where Lady Villebois picked 
up this particular specimen. ’ ’ 

Ormerod frowned and bit his lip. Though he was per- 
sonally unacquainted wHh the young lady in question, it 
jarred on him to hear her spoken of in that slighting 
manner. 

Le Marchant, who felt somewhat bored by this frivo- 
lous talk, had risen from his chair and approached one of 
the open windows. He looked thoughtfully at the noble 
expanse of park, at the brilliant blue of the summer sky, 
at the sta.tely avenue of beecli-trees which led up to the 
house. Was he thinking of the strange caprice of Fort- 
une that had made him master of those wide acres, of 
that ancient timber, of that luxurious house and the long 
rent roll of the Dallases? Or was he thinking of the one 
romance of his youth ; of beautiful Catherine Dallas, the 
woman he had once loved so passionately ; of the bitter 
enmity which had succeeded that love ; of the years of 
ceaseless scheming ; of the never-resting vigilance and 
anxiety which followed Catherine’s expulsion from her 
father’s house? Whatever the subject of his thoughts, 


74 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


his quick ear caught the substance of Ormerod’s words, 
and half unconsciously he listened to hear more. 

Who shall explain the subtle instinct which prompted 
him to listen to a story that had apparently no connection 
with his fortunes? 

‘There are a dozen romantic stories going about,” said 
Ormerod, after a moment’s pause, during which Le Mar- 
chant left the window and again approached the group. 
“The one which is the most often repeated and the most 
generally believed is, that Lady Villebois discovered the 
young lady in some out-of-the-way quarter of town — at a 
second-hand book-shop, I believe. You know Lady Vil- 
lebois’ passion for rare editions? It was on one of these 
foraging expeditions that she discovered the wonderful 
beauty over whom London has gone mad.” 

‘ The daughter of the book-seller, I suppose ?” remarked 
Mrs. Le Marchant, sardonically. 

“No. The young lady is an orphan, I believe.” 

“Do tell me more about her,” said Sybil, eagerly. She 
had been listening intently to the conversation, and her 
love of romance made her long to hear more about this 
beautiful, mysterious damsel. 

‘T am afraid I know little or nothing beyond what I 
have told you already,” replied Ormerod, turning toward 
her and speaking in a softer tone. 

‘‘Cannot you tell me her name?” persisted Sybil. ‘‘I 
should like to know her when we go up to London. ’ ’ 

‘‘Nonsense, Sybil,” interrupted Mrs. Le Marchant, peev- 
ishly. ‘‘I cannot allow you to associate with an adven- 
turess, even if she is a. protegee of Lady Villebois.” 

‘‘Her name,” said Felix, turning again to Sybil and 
purposely ignoring Mrs. Le Marchant’s obvious displeas- 
ure — ‘‘I have heard her name once or twice, but it has 
slipped my memory . 5 ’ 

Le Marchant came a step nearer and waited in an atti- 
tude of expectancy. A feeling stronger than curiosity 
prompted him to listen ; a mysterious instinct warned 
him that Ormerod’s next words would reveal something 
he vaguely dreaded to hear. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


75 

“Stay,” added Felix, after a moment’s hesitation, 
“now I have it. Her name is Lowry — Vivien Lowry.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

SUMMER DAYS. 

“I wonder how it is that some people are so easy to 
talk to, while others make one feel so stupid?” said Sybil, 
innocently, gazing up into Ormerod’s face as they slowly 
paced up and down the wide stone terrace looking west- 
ward across the park. 

Ormerod had been some days at Dallas Towers, and he 
and Sybil were quite on the footing of old friends. From 
the first she had shown him by a hundred unconscious 
admissions how welcome his presence was to her. The 
girl was so entirely unsophisticated, so ignorant of the 
ways of the world, that she constantly betrayed the 
pleasure she felt in Ormerod’s society in a manner that 
was highly gratifying to the latter’s vanity, and at the 
same time intensified the interest he already felt in her. 

“I suppose,” replied Ormerod, smiling down at Sybil’s 
thoughtful, upturned face, “it is an exemplification of 
the laws of attraction and repulsion.” Then, seeing that 
she looked slightly puzzled, he continued, “Have you had 
much practical experience of unsympathetic people, Miss 
Le Marchant ? — you speak feelingly. ’ ’ 

Sybil blushed vividly, and her eyes sought the ground. 

“I — I only spoke generally,” she stammered, shyly, 
“although—” 

“Yes,” said Ormerod, gravely, as she paused. “I think 
I understand you. You have suffered from want of 
sympathy yourself. ’ ’ 

“I — I did not say so,” faltered Sybil, thinking she had 
gone too far. But the longing to explain her feelings 
conquered her timidity, and she continued: “I have no 
sister, and I have never had a girl-friend ; perhaps that 
is why I have sometimes felt lonely at home.” 


76 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Poor child,” thought Ormerod, with a sudden impulse 
of pity and tenderness ; “it is not to be wondered at, with 
that overdressed piece of affectation for a mother, and 
such a block of granite as Bernard Le Marchant for a 
father!” 

His keen, gray eyes softened as they rested on her 
downcast face ; her lips were quivering slightly, and her 
long lashes were wet. There was a pathetic suggestion 
of feminine weakness and helplessness in her demeanor 
that was very attractive to a man of Ormerod ’s caliber. 
He took her hand and pressed it tenderly. 

“And since I came have you f^t lonely, Sybil?” he 
asked, in a low tone. 

The impulse to express his sympathy for her was so 
strong that the words were spoken before he realized all 
they must imply. He had not intended to speak so plainly 
—yet. He feared that she would be alarmed, perhaps 
offended, by his precipitancy ; their acquaintance was but 
a few days old. 

Ever since the first evening of his stay at the Towers, a 
half-formed idea had been floating in Ormerod’s mind 
that Sybil Le Marchant was just the innocent, confiding, 
tender-hearted being he could enshrine in his heart. The 
women it had been his fate to meet in society had little 
attraction for him ; he saw so much in them that was 
meretricious, mean and heartless that he had set up for 
himself an ideal woman whom he worshiped in secret 
with a loyal devotion that would have astonished many 
people who knew Felix Ormerod only as the rising, am- 
bitious young man whose future seemed to promise great 
things. 

Now this ideal woman seemed to find a living entity in 
Sybil Le Marchant, and Ormerod’s allegiance was trans- 
ferred to her with a rapidity which startled and yet de- 
lighted him. The charm which Sybil had thrown over 
him at their first meeting strengthened day by day, and 
he willingly submitted to the new influence. The pecul- 
iar conditions under which his youth and early manhood 
had been passed, rendered him doubly susceptible to the 
charm of such an utterly guileless, unworldly nature as 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


77 


Sybil’s. He had no memories of a mother’s or sister’s 
love ; and he had had no intimate friendship with women. 
His knowledge of men was extensive and varied, but of 
feminine human nature he knew very little. 

Ormerod whited in some trepidation for Sybil’s reply to 
his daring question. The color rushed to her face, she 
trembled and half withdrew her hand from his clasp ; 
but when she gained courage to look up, when she met 
Ormerod ’s eyes fixed inquiringly on her face, her mo- 
mentary shyness and agitation left her. She smiled ; her 
large, soft eyes looked wistfully at him ; but she did not 
speak. 

The man who could gaze unmoved at that blushing, 
child-like face, at those wistful brown eyes, must have 
been flinty indeed. Ormerod was by no means insensible 
to its charm ; far from it. But self-control was a habit 
with him; he restrained the sudden impulse which 
prompted him to clasp her in his arms. 

“Sybil,” he said, very gently, “I have known you a 
very short time — only a few days ; but in those few days 
you have become very dear to me. Can you trust me with 
your future? Will you let me try to make your life 
happy?” The girl’s head drooped suddenly, a rush of 
tears dimmed her eyes ; a new, strange, trembling joy 
rose in her heart. She drew her hands away from Or- 
merod’s clasp, and pressed them on her breast. It had all 
come so suddenly upon her : she half feared to analyze 
the feeling she had for this man — an utter stranger to her 
but one short week ago. 

Ormerod read the hesitation in her face. 

“I have spoken too soon,” he said, gently. “Forgive 
me, Sybil. I spoke impulsively. Do not give me your 
answer now. I will wait for your decision patiently.” 

His voice stilled the agitation and trouble of mind into 
which she had again relapsed. All lingering doubt and 
hesitation vanished like mist before the sun. The full 
consciousness of her love burst on her with a suddelmess 
that almost bewildered her. Her heart throbbed so loudly 
that she feared Ormerod would hear its wild pulsation. 
Joy — such joy as had never yet come to Sybil filled her 


78 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


whole being with its bright effulgence. He loved her ! 
What measureless content those three words conveyed to 
her mind ! What had she done to deserve such happiness 
as this? 

Ormerod gazed at her in silence. He had again pos- 
sessed himself of her hand, and held it firmly in his own. 

“Sybil, you have not spoken one word to me yet,” he 
said, looking tenderly down at her sweet, changing face. 
“Tell me, at least, that I have not forfeited your regard.” 

“You have made me very happy,” faltered Sybil, shy- 
ly. Then she blushed until her face rivaled the rosy 
glory of the sunset yonder. In truth, she was happy — 
perfectly, radiantly happy. 

Le Marchant offered no opposition to his daughter’s 
engagement. He had already contemplated such a pos- 
sibility, and he was, therefore, not in the least surprised 
when Ormerod made his proposal in form for Miss Le 
Marchant’s hand. He stipulated only that the marriage 
should not take place for some months. 

“I have the highest opinion of you, Ormerod,” said Le 
Marchant, with unwonted graciousness of manner, as 
they sat in the smoking-room after the ladies had retired 
for the night. “I shall trust Sybil’s future to you with 
the greatest confidence ; but, all things considered, it 
will be best to wait awhile. Why, a week ago you and 
Sybil were strangers !” he added, with a harsh laugh. 

His manner grated on Felix. He felt a momentary 
feeling of repulsion against his proposed father-in-law. 
It struck him forcibly that care for Sybil’s happiness was 
not the motive which prompted Le Marchant to accept 
him as a husband for his daughter. 

Ormerod’s acquaintance with the master of Dallas 
Towers had not been such as to give him a very exalted 
idea of that gentleman’s character ; but he felt chilled, 
and vaguely disappointed in him. He had expected that 
Le ivfarchant would abate something of the impassable 
reserve of his usual manner on such an occasion. But he 
was mistaken. Le Marchant listened to all he had to say 
on the subject of settlements with perfect politeness and 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


79 


attention, but it was evident that he felt little interest in 
the subject. 

“My daughter will inherit Dallas Towers at my death,” 
he said, suddenly, when Ormerod had explained his own 
prospects — which were good, but not brilliant — at some 
length. 

“I was not aware of it,” said Ormerod, flushing hotly. 
“I thought the estate was entailed in the male line.” 

“No. Sybil will be my heiress. ” 

“I hope you acquit me of any mercenary motive in 
proposing for Miss Le Marchant,” said Felix, stiffly. He 
felt irritated by the other’s manner. To do Ormerod 
justice, he was perfectly sincere in his professions of 
affection for Sybil, and it galled him beyond endurance to 
think that Le Marchant attributed his desire to make 
Sybil his wife merely to a cold and calculating greed for 
her broad acres. 

“I brought no such accusation against you,” retorted 
Le Marchant, coldly; “I merely mentioned the fact of 
Sybil’s heiress-ship.” 

So the temporary unpleasantness between the two men 
passed away, and they were to all appearance good 
friends again ; but Ormerod could not quite shake off the 
disagreeable impression made upon him by his host’s oc- 
casional fits of moroseness. 

In spite of some few drawbacks, time passed very 
pleasantly for Ormerod during those unclouded summer 
days he spent at Dallas Towers. The limits of his visit 
were considerably extended after his engagement to 
Sybil, and he gave himself up unreservedly to the charm 
of his young betrothed’s society. Sybil’s love seemed to 
fulfill every dream he had indulged in for years. He flat- 
tered himself that he had thoroughly sounded her char- 
acter ; it never struck him that this charming girl was 
perfectly incapable of sympathizing with, or even of 
comprehending, the ambition that was the keynote of his 
own character. The half -reverential awe with which she 
regarded him flattered his vanity. He could not doubt 
that she loved him, and he thought himself the happiest 


80 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


of men. To have gained the love of so" tender, so femi- 
nine, so winsome a being seemed the acme of bliss. 

It was delightful, after a long day spent with Le Mar- 
chant at Compton Magna, after tedious consultations 
with the heads of the Party anent the forthcoming Elec- 
tion, to saunter on the wide terrace in the summer dusk 
and listen to Sybil’s sweet voice as she prattled on about 
the small trivialities of her life. She told him the history 
of every one of the numerous pet animals, from pug-dogs 
to love-birds, she liked to have about her. Had she been 
less pretty, he might have thought this taste childish ; 
but, as matters were, he accepted it as another proof of 
her gentle womanliness of character. 

Sybil’s love had brought an element of poetry into the 
uncompromising prose of his life : a new incentive to ex- 
ertion was given. 

Felix Ormerod was, and always had been, ambitious ; 
not perhaps extravagantly so, but there was in him a deep 
and abiding desire to rise above his fellows, to win for 
himself a name and a place in the world. The small am- 
bitions and petty cares of the ordinary ruck of men did 
not, never would, content him. The trivialities of a coun- 
try gentleman’s existence would not satisfy the needs of 
his active, stirring mind any more than would the empty 
frivolities, the meaningless shams, the mingled ennui and 
excitement of the life of a man of fashion. He longed 
for some wider area than that of a county clique, or than 
the small world of society ; for some loftier aim than that 
of aspiring to the mastership of foxhounds, or to the 
making of a creditable speech at Election time ; some 
nobler purpose than that of dressing in the height of 
fashion, lounging in club- windows and frittering away 
his life in a round of so-called pleasures. 

It was this ambitious and higher self that remained 
unmoved by Sybil’s influence. She dimly reverenced his 
talents; she admired her lover’s distinguished if not 
handsome exterior ; and she thoroughly appreciated his 
devotion to herself ; but she had none of the quick intui- 
tion, none of the almost magical power of sympathy 
which some women possess. Sybil’s intellect was nar- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


81 


row, her mind unformed to childishness — how should she 
understand the complex workings of a man’s inner nat- 
ure, the ambitious yearnings of a man’s soul? 

Ormerod had never yet met with a woman who could 
thus, by the magic of sympathy, penetrate the mere outer 
husk of his pleasant, courteous exterior, and reach the 
real, living, Striving, ambitious core of his character. He 
did not believe that such a woman existed. Perhaps, 
just then, he would rather have the simple, unquestion- 
ing adoration of a girl like Sybil Le Marchant than the 
deeper, wiser love of a woman, who, while aware of his 
faults, would yet give him a lasting and faithful affection. 

The hours spent in Sybil’s society were hours of com- 
plete relaxation of mind ; he need not trouble himself to 
unfold his best thoughts for her benefit ; she was more 
than content with the crumbs he vouchsafed her from 
the rich stores of his intellect. A woman of higher men- 
tal caliber would not have been satisfied unless he had 
laid bare heart and mind before her ; she would have 
accepted no half-homage. Sybil was humbly content 
with soft speeches and softer glances, with the thousand 
small attentions which, coming from one who was sup- 
posed to be singularly indifferent to feminine allurements, 
were doubly gratifying to her. Besides, she really loved 
Felix ; she blushed and trembled when he touched her 
hand, her eyes followed him with the tender, trusting- 
love of a child — and she was really charmingly pretty. 
Here lay her greatest power ; her fresh, girlish beauty, 
though not of a very high order, had a wonderful charm 
for Ormerod, and, for the time being, he was completely 
under its spell. 


CHAPTER V. 

VIVIEN. 

Rollestone House was a long, low stone building of 
the semi-classic order of architecture in vogue during the 
earlier half of the last century. A wide stone terrace, on 


82 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


which shrill-voiced, brilliant-hued peacocks strutted and 
swept in all the magnificence of their rainbow plumage, 
ran along the whole front of the house ; a broad flight of 
steps led from this terrace to the garden, which was of 
considerable extent, and surrounded with high walls, 
that effectually shut out the prying eyes of the inhabit- 
ants of a mushroom-growth of villas which of late years 
has sprung up in the once rural suburb of Chiswick. 

In spite of the near neighborhood of the metropolis, the 
grounds of Rollestone House were as secluded as a 
French convent garden, as cool and silent as some old- 
world cloister. A group of grandly majestic cedar-trees 
shaded a wide stretch of lawn, whose turf was soft as 
velvet to the tread. No gaudy mosaic of flower-beds 
marred the perfect smoothness and verdure of that lawn, 
for Lady Villebois — the charming mistress of that most 
charming of mansions, Rollestone House — held all scent- 
less flowers in contempt, and abhorred all such vandal- 
isms as “ribbon-borderings” and jam-tart arrangements, 
in which nothing is left to Nature, but where every leaf 
and blossom is stiff and studied, and utterly devoid of 
grace. 

But she had a passion for roses, which she indulged to 
the full — her rosery was a triumph of horticulture — and 
she would suffer no rivals to her favorites. The rosery 
lay on the south side of the house, and the warm summer 
wind wafted the rich scent of countless blossoms across 
the lawn to where two ladies sat under the broad shade 
of the cedar-trees. 

The elder, who lay back idly in a deep easy-chair of 
the bee-hive pattern, was a small, delicate-featured, white- 
haired woman. Age had set its mark on a face that had 
once been. beautiful as that of the girl who sat at her feet ; 
but age had not yet robbed the brightness from those 
clear blue eyes, nor the animation from those mobile 
features ; nor had it quenched the bright wit, nor chilled 
the kindly heart of Mary, Lady Villebois, “the most 
charming woman in the world,” as she was styled by the 
most ardent of her numerous admirers. 

Her life had not been a happy one, yet through long 




LIKE LUCIFER. 


83 


years of disappointment and sorrow she had kept a brave 
face to the world. Now, in her old age, a quiet, subdued 
happiness had come to her, just as a day of storm may 
be -followed by an evening of tranquil peace and softened 
glory. At seventeen, Mary Rollestone, an heiress and a 
beauty, was married to a man some thirty years her 
senior, a selfish, heartless roue , utterly unworthy of her. 
Her domestic unhappiness was well known, yet the voice 
of scandal had never been lifted against her. Of adulation 
and flattery she had had her fill, but she passed unscathed 
through the fiery furnace of fashionable life. If tempta- 
tion had ever assailed her, she had trampled it under 
foot, and held steadily on in the thorny paths along which 
Destiny drove her, with a quiet, uncomplaining heroism 
worthy of a martyr. 

Fifteen years ago Lord Villebois died, having lived be- 
yond the ordinary span of human existence, and his un- 
happy wife was, at last, freed from her bonds. To the 
last she was faithful to the vows she had taken in her 
careless youth. Lady Villebois was her husband’s con- 
stant companion and nurse through years of ill-health, 
and finally of complete senility and helplessness, tending 
him with a gentle patience and wifely devotion which 
roused some gratitude even in the cynical, bitter, world- 
worn heart of her husband. He died blessing her, beg- 
ging her forgiveness with his last breath, and the noble, 
tender-hearted woman felt she had not borne her long 
martyrdom in vain. 

The world called her eccentric, as it generally does 
those who rise above the dead level of commonplace in- 
anity, or dare to travel out of the limited circle of every- 
day existence. But, as she was extremely popular in 
society, such divergences from the beaten track were only 
received with a pitying smile or shrug of the shoulders 
as “one of dear Lady Villebois’ whims.” 

The beautiful girl who sat a$ her feet, under the broad 
shade of the cedar-trees, was generally accepted as the 
latest exemplification of Lady Villebois’ well-known ec- 
centricity. But the bond of sympathy and affection 
which bound them so closely together made both indiffer- 


84 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


ent to the charges of caprice and self-interest which the 
world brought against them respectively. 

Lady Villebois’ protegee was beautiful in no common 
degree; her features were cast in the purest Grecian 
mold ; her complexion was wonderfully clear and trans- 
parent ; her eyes, of great depth and expression, dark- 
gray in hue and fringed with long lashes, shone out from 
beneath a low arched brow of noble amplitude with a 
clear and steadfast gaze. The owner of such eyes must 
be incapable alike of untruthfulness or coquetry. The 
expression of the mouth— always the most characteristic 
feature in a woman’s face— was singularly serene, almost 
child-like when in repose ; it was, artistically speaking, 
a beautiful mouth, the lines of the lips were delicate yet 
softly curved, the tint of that beautiful healthful rose 
which paint can never imitate ; yet there was an unmis- 
takable look of decision about it that answered to the 
noble breadth of the brow and the steady gaze of the 
eyes. It was a face that compelled attention, that ex- 
cited more than mere admiration for its beauty. 

“Vivien,” said Lady Villebois, gently laying her hand 
on the girl’s shoulder, “since you came to me I have 
known something of the happiness a mother must feel.” 

There was a tone of wistfulness in her voice that made 
Vivien draw closer to her friend: she knew that her 
childlessness was one of the. bitterest disappointments of 
Lady Villebois’.life. 

“I think,” she pursued, glancing affectionately in the 
girl’s face, “that a mysterious link of sympathy drew us 
together the first time we met in that dark, dusty old 
book-shop. How often have I blessed the chance which 
led me there ! I felt that we were fated to influence 
each other in the future. Your friendship — your daily 
presence in my home, has brought sunshine into a’ life 
that has known little real brightness. You understand 
me, child, as no one has ever done. I can talk unre- 
servedly to you without fear of being misunderstood.” 

“And I,” said Vivien, looking up gratefully into the 
sweet, refined face of the elder lady, “feel that you have 
been the good angel of my life. X was not precisely un- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


85 


happy in that queer, dusty old shop, my time was too 
fully occupied— after all,” she added, thoughtfully, “I 
think the secret of real contentment, if not of happiness, 
is in that prosaic thing — work.” 

“And yet,” interrupted Lady Villebois, eagerly, “pro- 
saic as it may be, work of any kind is nobler than stupid 
idleness. Vivien, when I think of the lives of some of the 
men and women round me, my heart aches. It is per- 
fectly awful to see how many thousands spend their lives 
in a state of utter mental vacuity, and yet are intensely 
satisfied with themselves— nay, who think their own 
dense stupidity superior to the intelligence of others, for 
they are ignorant of their very ignorance. My child, be- 
lieve me, your life even in that dismal back-shop was 
likely to be happier than if you had been reared among 
people whose brains have been dulled by centuries of 
idleness.” 

“What dreadful Radicalism!” said Vivien, laughing 
at her friend’s diatribe against the order to which she be- 
longed. “Lady Villebois, the very stones of that old 
house will cry out against you,” she added, pointing with 
mock solemnity to the gray facade of Rollestone House. 

“Ah, my child ! I have outlived the narrow prejudices 
which would draw hard and fast lines between class and 
class. We of the upper strata of society ought to be 
ashamed that with all the advantages of education of 
which we have held the monopoly for centuries — happily 
it is so no longer — the great minds, those whose names 
will be remembered while the English tongue is spoken, 
have belonged, with but a few brilliant exceptions, to the 
middle and lower classes.” 

“But then you see genius is no respecter of persons — it 
is a very democrat,” said Vivien, thoughtfully. “I often 
wonder,” she added, after a moment’s silence, “if Sir 
Thomas Lucy felt any mysterious premonitions when the 
future ‘poet of all time’ stood before him.” 

“My dear, depend upon it he was too full of his own 
importance to give the subject a thought.” 

“I have often pictured that scene,” pursued Vivien; 
“can’t you fancy the heaven-born genius that has made 


86 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


hundreds of thousands laugh and weep ; his great soul not 
yet awakened to its full power ; his destiny yet unfulfilled, 
standing abashed, guilty and ashamed before that well- 
meaning, soulless pomposity, the country magistrate, 
whose name is only saved from oblivion by that very oc- 
currence?” 

“A homily to those inflated with pride of birth!” 
laughed Lady Villebois ; then, after a moment’s pause, 
she said, in a more serioug fone, “Vivien, I have never 
yet asked you to tell me the history of your early life — 
don’t tell me anything if it is painful to you to do so,” 
she added, quickly, as the color rushed into Vivien’s face 
and her sensitive lips quivered. 

“ It will not be painful to tell it to you” said the girl, 
very gently. “I have already told you that I lost both 
my parents when I was a child of fourteen ; but I have 
never said that my mother — died of want” — her voice 
faltered slightly here — “and — a broken heart.” She 
paused, and a sudden shadow crossed her clear brow. In 
a moment she had conquered the shrinking reluctance 
she felt to lay bare this old sorrow. In a low but calm 
voice, she continued, “My father, driven to desperation 
by overwhelming grief — took his own life — ” 

“My poor child,” said Lady Villebois, tenderly draw- 
ing the girl’s bowed head to her bosom, and smoothing 
her waving golden hair with a loving hand. “And you 
were left alone to fight your way through this hard, cruel 
w r orld — at fourteen years old !” 

“I found friends,” rejoined Vivien, gently; “true and 
kind friends among those who, like myself, were poor 
and friendless. I had not a penny in the world — we were 
even in debt to our landlady — I knew I must work, or 
starve, or beg. I think, young as I was, my spirit rose 
to the emergency : poverty and sorrow had a bracing 
effect on my mind. I felt a certain pride of independ- 
ence. I shrank from the idea of being a burden on any 
one. When my old friend at the second-hand book-stall 
heard of my forlorn condition, he came to me, and offered 
me a small wage, if I would help in arranging and cata- 
loguing his books. I accepted his offer at once — eagerly. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


87 


gratefully ; and for four years my life was spent in that 
dark little shop. I was not unhappy,” she said, looking 
up thoughtfully through the dark, overarching boughs 
of the cedar-tree to the gleams of blue sky beyond. “I 
lived among the books ; they were my friends, my com- 
panions. Through them, I had bright glimpses of tffe 
great world outside. In imagination, I roved through 
many climes. I visited bright Eastern lands; I talked 
with men and women of every race and every creed. I 
heard the old-world fables from their lips ; I knew their 
lives, their very thoughts; I pictured their faces, their 
clothes, their gestures. Then my fancy carried me north- 
ward to the mysterious regions of ice and snow. I, too, 
explored those wide, rock-bound plains where night 
reigns for months. I watched the wonderful transfor- 
mation which the brief Arctic summer brings. I* seemed 
to see the rare flowers, the tiny mosses of that far-off land 
expand under the sun that shines for a day two months 
long. My body was in that dark, dusty little shop, but 
my soul, my real self had taken wing to brighter, stran- 
ger scenes. I was neither lonely nor unhappy. ” 

Vivien spoke rapidly. A flush of color had stolen into 
her usually pale cheek ; her large eyes dilated ; her whole 
aspect changed under the influence of the memories she 
had invoked. She was living over again the dreams and 
fancies of her strange, solitary childhood. 

Lady Villebois’ artistic eyes dwelt on her with the 
quiet appreciative admiration with which she would 
have contemplated any perfect work of Nature or Art. 
When she was strongly moved, as now, Vivien Lowry 
was supremely, undeniably beautiful. There was about 
her a more enduring charm than the mere witchery of 
brilliant eyes, the fascination of winning smiles, or even 
of that “strong toil of grace” which surrounds some 
women with a subtle atmosphere of enchantment. The 
magical attraction which drew people to her had its ori- 
gin, not in the mere charm of physical beauty, but in the 
power and striking originality of her mind, in the innate 
nobility and sincerity of her character. 

Nature had dowered Vivien with the rare gift of elo- 


88 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


quence, that wonderful power which sways the hearts of 
men with an impulse as resistless as that of the mighty 
storm- wind which bends to its will the forest-trees of the 
tropics — a force more inexplicable, more potent for good 
or ill than all the marvels revealed by science. It was a 
strange endowment for a woman, perhaps, but not an in- 
credible one, as the page of history can tell. Surely Joan 
of Arc, Margaret of Anjou, Madame Roland possessed 
this power ; and Shakespeare — that mirror of Humanity 
— has made Portia utter one of the most soul-moving 
speeches in the whole range of literature. 

Modern civilization has all but crushed out the flame of 
feminine eloquence, save in the platform efforts of the 
“shrieking sisterhood,” but now and again it bursts forth. 
Had Vivien Lowry been born in a clime nearer the sun 
and earlier in the century, she would have been wor- 
shiped as Corinne was worshiped ; her beauty and her 
genius would have raised her to her rightful place as a 
lieaven-born queen of men. In England her beauty was 
admired, the charm of her presence was acknowledged, 
the romantic story of her discovery by Lady Villebois 
roused interest, but her eager enthusiasm and her fervid 
love of all right and beautiful things were generally 
looked on with a cold, disapproving wonder ; her elo- 
quence was pronounced “odd” ; the force and originality 
of her character were unappreciated, save by Lady Ville- 
bois and one or two others. Had she been less beautiful, 
had her manner been less winning, she would have been 
assigned the damning epithet “strong-minded,” or classed 
among the blue-stockings. 

“Dear child,” said Lady Villebois, after a pause, during 
which her regard had rested on Vivien’s glowing face, 
“you make me feel young again when i look at you. But 
tell me more about your early life, tell me about your 
parents — everything about you interests me deeply.” 

“My father was an artist,” said Vivien; the color had 
died out of her face, and her voice sank to a grave, sad 
cadence. “He failed ; his life was a hard and imbittered 
one, save for my mother’s love. Ah ! my mother, how 
well I remember her !— her sweet, bright face that al- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


89 


ways had a smile for me even when things were at their 
darkest ; her low, tender voice that was like music to 
me ; the touch of her loving hands. And her life was so 
soon ended — sorrow and suffering came so early to her ! 
I have never told you my mother’s story,” Vivien went 
on, with a flash of anger in her deep-gray eyes. ‘ She 
was cruelly wronged ; her father disinherited her because 
she refused to give up the man she loved.” 

“He must have been a hard man— your grandfather, I 
mean,” said Lady Villebois, thoughtfully. 

“My grandfather!” repeated Vivien. “Ah, yes, the 
relationship had escaped me,” she said, a little bitterly. 

4 ‘No, I believe he was only weak, the dupe of a crafty 
and unscrupulous man who was my parents’ crudest 
enemy— a man so heartless that he heaped upon my fa* 
ther the bitterest insults when he was all but crushed to 
the earth by sorrow and privation.” 

“Who was this man?” asked Lady Villebois, quickly. 

“I do not know; there are missing links in the story 
my father told me a few days before his— end,” said 
Vivien, with a deeper inflection of voice on the last word. 
The remembrance of her father’s miserable fate was still 
very bitter to her ; it was the one black cloud in her past 
that no amount of present sunshine could disperse. “I 
do not even know the name of the man who was my 
mother’s evil genius, but I should know that dark, pow- 
erful, sarcastic face among a thousand. I have never 
forgotten it.” 

“What! you have seen this man?” exclaimed Lady 
Villebois, quickly. 

“Yes, I saw him — once. It was the day before my 
mother died. We — my father and I — went to entreat for- 
giveness, to ask for help ; we were in bitter poverty, my 
mother was dying of sheer want, or my father’s pride 
would never have allowed him to beg for money.” 

“But this man’s name — surely you have heard it?” said 
Lady Villebois, eagerly. 

“I believe I must; but I was so agitated, so completely 
unnerved by that interview that I have forgotten it. 
Often I have tried to force myself to recall it,” she went 


90 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


on, pressing her hand to her forehead as though to com- 
pel memory to do her work, “but in vain. The events 
that followed were so terrible, so appalling, that my 
brain seems numbed when I try to carry recollection 
back to that time. All my efforts to remember our en- 
emy’s name have been futile ; yet I think, if I heard it 
spoken — stay, I fancy it had a half-foreign sound.” 

“Do not worry yourself about it ; my dear child,” said 
Lady Villebois, soothingly, for she saw the painful men- 
tal effort Vivien was making to recall those long-past 
days of suffering; “be sure, whoever your mother’s en- 
emy was, Nemesis will follow him, and avenge her. I 
have a theory on the subject,” she went on, drifting as 
usual out into the wide sea of speculative abstractions. 
“I believe all a man’s sins and follies eventually find him 
out. Shakespeare never wrote a truer line than that, 

4 Thus the whirligig of Time brings about its revenges.’ 

Vivien, I feel sure your life’s drama will not be played 
out without the appearance on the scene of this unknown 
enemy of your mother. Perhaps I am a fatalist to think 
so ; people have applied that epithet to me among others. 
At least there is a certain amount of rough justice in my 
notion that evil-doers meet with punishment in this 
world. What if you should be fated to be the instrument 
of an avenging Providence — ’ 

Where Lady Villebois’ speculations would have carried 
her, had she had time to develop this last idea fully, it is 
impossible to say. Her philosophical disquisitions were 
abruptly cut short by the sudden appearance of her 
white-headed groom of the chambers— a venerable old 
man, who still kept his position in her household in spite 
of his age and growing infirmities— one of a class which 
is rapidly dying out : that of faithful, attached, and re- 
spected servitude. 

“What is it now, Wilson?” said her ladyship, a little 
impatiently. “Oh! a visitor, I suppose,” . she added, 
catching sight of a card on the silver salver he held in 
his hand. 

“Yes, m’ lady,” was the imperturbable reply. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


91 


“Mi. Felix Ormerod,” said Lady Villebois, reading the 
card through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “Show him 
here, Wilson. It is a shame to sit indoors on such a day 
as this,” she added, turning to Vivien, “and I should 
think any sensible man would prefer that stretch of blue 
sky and the cool shadow of this cedar-tree to my draw- 
ing-room.” 

Vivien smiled her assent, and rose from her lowly po- 
sition at her friend’s feet. As she moved, a sunbeam 
darted through the thick branches of the cedar and illu- 
mined her face and hair with a radiant halo of intense 
light. Lady Villebois glanced at her quickly; Vivien’s 
beauty struck her anew with wonder and admiration : 
the tall, stately figure, fully developed yet graceful and 
willowy in every movement, standing out against the 
dark background of the cedar-trunk ; that sun-ray just 
touching the white forehead and golden hair ; the look of 
intense earnestness in the gray eyes, made a picture 
worth looking at. There was an almost solemn hush 
about the scene; the golden afternoon light slumbered on 
the vivid emerald of the wide lawn, on the warmer hue 
of a group of copper-beech-trees, on the distant brilliance 
of color'*t'rom the rose-garden. 

Neither spoke; both were of that sensitive, highly- 
strung organization which is so quick to feel any new 
impending influence. In Vivien this strange faculty of 
prescience almost amounted to a sixth sense. As she 
waited there under the dusky shade of the giant cedar- 
tree, a curious foreboding was upon her ; she shrank from 
meeting this stranger, though she would have found it 
impossible to account for the existence of the feeling. A 
premonition rushed over her that a new phase of her life 
was about to commence ; that that hot, still, balmy after- 
noon was destined to mark an epoch in the story of her 
fate. 

Lady Villebois looked at her again ; she was accus- 
tomed to read every passing emotion in the girl’s express- 
ive face, but for once she failed to comprehend her fa- 
vorite’s mood — though some magnetic power of sympathy 
made her vaguely uneasy and anxious on her behalf. 


92 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


The sound of approaching footsteps roused both from 
the half-dreamy state into which they had fallen. Viv- 
ien’s habitual serenity returned to her, and Lady Ville- 
bois was her vivacious, brilliant and charming self again 
before Felix Ormerod had crossed the stretch of emerald 
turf to where the two laides sat. 


CHAPTER VI. 

UNDER THE CEDARS. 

Ormerod’s unlooked-for appearance at Rollestone 
House was the result of a conversation between Sybil 
and himself on the evening previous to his departure 
from Dallas Towers. Vivien Lowry’s romantic story 
had aroused something deeper and stronger than mere 
curiosity in Sybil’s breast. More than once she had ques- 
tioned her betrothed on the subject, and she openly ex- 
pressed her disappointment when Ormerod told her that 
he had nothing to impart beyond what she already knew. 
Sybil, however, was not to be thus easily baffled ; she 
had set her heart on clearing up the mystery which 
shrouded the past history of Lady Villebois’ protegee. 
Hers was an essentially emotional nature. In her child- 
hood she had delighted in fairy tales ; bare facts were 
distasteful, unless robed in a dress of fascinating romance. 
Her life had hitherto been singularly devoid of exciting 
incidents, and she longed for a closer acquaintance with 
one whose experiences of life must be so different from 
her own. Thus it was that she begged Ormerod to pay 
an early visit to Rollestone House and pave the way for 
her introduction to Lady Villebois and Vivien later on. 
Ormerod had promised to do so, and, as the day succeed- 
ing his return to town was particularly fine, he decided 
to ride out to Chiswick the same afternoon. 

“My dear Mr. Ormerod, I am delighted to see you 
again,” said Lady Villebois, holding out her hand as he 




LIKE LUCIFER. 


93 


approached. “I thought you had forgotten your way to 
Chiswick.” 

Ormerod shook hands and glanced quickly at the tall, 
white-clad figure standing behind Lady Yillebois’ chair. 

“I don’t think you have met Miss Lowry before*” said 
that lady, brightly. “Vivien, my dear, this is Mr. Felix 
Ormerod — a gentleman who was formerly one of my 
most frequent visitors, but who has lately taken to poli- 
tics, and consequently has neglected me shamefully.” 

“I am afraid I must cry mea culpd,” said Felix, bow- 
ing to Vivien. “Miss Lowry, will you plead for me?” 

The embarrassment which both had momentarily felt 
soon vanished, for Vivien was naturally of a serene tem- 
per and Ormerod was too well versed in the ways of so- 
ciety to allow any emotion to appear on the surface. 

“I have been away — in Grasshire,” he continued ; “in- 
deed, I only returned last night. My first visit has been 
to you, Lady Villebois, so I think you must acquit me of 
any willful neglect.” 

“I find a verdict of ‘not guilty,’ ” she replied, laughing. 
“What induced you to run away from town during the 
season? Grasshire must hold some great attraction, 
surely, to wean you from the pursuit of what the world 
— perhaps in satire — calls pleasure.” 

“My errand was partly of a political nature,” said Or- 
merod, flushing slightly; “one of the county magnates 
in that part of the world has promised me his influence 
at- the next election.” 

“You intend to become a candidate for a seat in Parlia- 
ment,” laughed Lady Villebois, holding up her hands in 
mock horror. “Oh, most deluded young man ! Are you 
fired with the ambition of ‘ commanding the applause of 
listening senates ’?” 

“Again I must say mea culpd,” said Felix, smiling; 
“such is my intention. I am to solicit the suffrages of 
the free and independent electors of Compton Magna 
when the present member retires. ” 

“And your politics?” 

“Are moderately Conservative.” 

“Moderately Conservative!” repeated her ladyship, 


94 LIKE LUCIFER. 

slowly; “let me think what that means — I was reared in 
the old-fashioned school of Toryism, before the word Con- 
servative was coined. What my present convictions are 
I scarcely dare say ; but when I see the vice, the misery, 
the abject poverty in this great, overcrowded metropolis 
of ours, I am tempted to become a Red Republican — a 
Nihilist — anything !” 

Ormerod smiled at this tirade ; he was not shocked, not 
even surprised at her vehemence ; he knew, none better, 
how kind, how noble, how gentle was the heart of the 
eccentric old lady whose oddities of speech and manner 
the world so often misunderstood. 

“I think my political creed is in all vital points that of 
the man I hope one day to call my political leader — Bea- 
consfield. ’ ’ 

“A great man,” said Lady Villebois, concisely. 

“There, at least, we can agree,” responded Ormerod, 
warmly. “Are you interested in politics, Miss Lowry?” 
he asked, suddenly turning to Vivien, who had been si- 
lently listening to the conversation. 

“That is rather a difficult question to answer,” she re- 
plied, gravely. “I know so little about the subject. I 
should certainly be puzzled to define my political creed ; 
but I suppose all parties have the same object in view — 
the good of the community and the best welfare of the 
people — ” 

“Ah, but,” interrupted Lady Villebois, quickly, “the 
great question is, what is the greatest good for them. 
Some think education is to be the panacea for all ills.” 

“But that will not save men and women from starva- 
tion,” replied Vivien, gently; “no one values the blessing 
of education more than I, but — ” 

“Ah, there is always a but; that is one of the ills of 
this unsatisfactory world of ours,” put in Lady Villebois, 
sighing. 

“What is your theory of the greatest good?” asked 
Ormerod of Vivien, as she paused thoughtfully. 

He felt an irresistible desire to learn more of the hid- 
den workings of a mind that he felt to be, for him, a new 
chapter in the book of human character— a totally unex- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


95 


pected development of a type of womanhood which he 
had hitherto had little opportunity of studying. He 
looked inquiringly at the beautiful, serious face of this 
very odd yoimg lady ; at her clear, earnest eyes, at her 
firm yet delicate mouth : “Surely nothing ill could dwell 
in such a temple,” he thought, as he waited for her 
answer. 

“My theories of life are little better than dreams,” she 
said at length, speaking in very quiet and yet earnest 
tones; “perhaps— nay, I am almost certain they could 
not be thoroughly carried out. Most people would think 
them utterly and ridiculously impracticable.” 

“Let us hear them, nevertheless,” said Lady Villebois, 
who loved to draw her favorite out. 

The color deepened in Vivien’s cheek. Her life hitherto 
had been solitary and secluded ; and she was sensitively 
alive to ridicule. There tv as a slightly satiric curve in 
this young man’s lips which intimated that sarcasm was 
not absent from his disposition. But Vivien’s convictions, 
young as she was, were so deeply rooted, her enthusiasm 
for the cause she had at heart was so warm, that, as she 
thought of all the misery, all the sin and wretchedness 
and suffering of millions of toiling, striving men and 
women— the People — the humble rank and file of the 
great army of Humanity, all thought of self vanished, 
and with it all her shyness and reserve. 

“I would have the rich and poor brought nearer to- 
gether — the bond of their common brotherhood strength- 
ened. The happy, wealthy, educated Few should make 
their superiority in rank — and all that is the consequence 
of that superiority — but the means to an end : the rescue 
from untold degradation of the unhappy, poverty-stricken 
Many. It seems to me that the cruel barriers which now 
exist between the higher and lower classes are a stand- 
ing reproach to our Christianity. I would throw down 
these barriers ; I would bridge over the chasm which sepa- 
rates the rich man from his poorer brother, I would 
have them learn from each other. Believe me, I have 
lived among the people, and I know their many good and 
noble qualities. The rich man would learn many useful 


96 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


lessons from those the world holds so immeasurably be- 
neath him : he would find much to admire, much to em- 
ulate — ” 

‘ ‘Hold ! Enough — enough ! ’ ’ cried Lady Villebois, with 
assumed horror. “Mr. Ormerod’s ‘moderate Conserva- 
tism ’ must have received a shock from which it will 
never recover. If I allow you to go on, he will become 
a convert to this most unorthodox political creed of yours 
— if creed it can be called. The free and independent 
electors of Compton Magna will be scandalized by the 
views of their candidate. A cry will go up to heaven 
that the country is in danger ; that the foundations of 
the glorious British Constitution are being undermined. 
In short, that a general upheaval of society is at hand. 
My dear child, you have given utterance to sentiments 
that absolutely appall me — you describe a Red Republican 
Utopia.’' 

“I warned you that my theories of life were visionary; 
but are they as impracticable as they seem?” said Vivien, 
the eager light in whose eyes had not yet faded ; for, as 
usual, she had forgotten mere conventionality of phrase 
and manner in the overmastering emotion of the moment. 
She felt deeply, and she spoke out of the fullness of her 
heart. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes shone; her 
voice had a thrill of intense feeling. 

Ormerod gazed at her wonderingly. This beautiful, 
impassioned woman, whose deep-gray eyes had in them 
the light of inspiration, was an utterly new revelation to 
him. He caught the infection of her enthusiasm. He, 
Felix Ormerod — who prided himself on the perfection of 
his self-mastery — felt the warm color mount to his cheeks, 
and a strange glow of emotion fill his heart. 

“Your theories are not impossible, nor even impracti- 
cable, if men would free their minds from the traditions 
of the past, and be content to liye and act in the light of 
present-day progress. ’ ’ 

“A convert— a convert!” cried Lady Villebois, exult- 
ingly. “Vivien, my dear, that eloquent tongue of yours 
has worked a miracle ! Do you know that this young 
man is considered one of the rising lights of ‘Young Eng- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


9 


land?’ That a possible future Prime Minister is hidden 
under this quiet exterior?” 

'Oh, Lady Villebois ! you are pleased to be satirical 
now,” retorted Ormerod, smiling. ‘‘Miss Lowry,” he 
added, turning to \ ivien, and speaking in a graver tone, 
‘‘believe me, that the party to which I have the honor to 
belong have tried to solve what is one of the most difficult 
problems of the present day— the amelioration of the 
condition of our poorer brethren, and the closer union of 
classes. ’ ’ 

‘‘I am glad to hear it,” said Lady Villebois, quickly. 
“As I told you I was reared in the school of rigid Tory- 
ism, but now I number myself among the free-lances ; 
such a position suits me exactly — suits my ‘irresponsible 
frivolity’ of mind, to quote our dear Dizzy, for whose 
talents I have the deepest admiration and the most com- 
plete respect. I like the liberty to criticise or sympathize 
with all parties ; I should hate the narrow limits of a 
party creed. But enough of generalities, Mr. Ormerod,” 
she added, smiling; “I am really interested to know how 
you fared with the good people of Compton Magna. I 
know something of that part of the world — indeed, I have 
a small property some four or five miles from the town, 
but I rarely visit it. What say you, Vivien shall we en- 
liven the dullness of Grasshire by a flying visit this au- 
tumn? ’ 

Lady Villebois looked inquiringly at her favorite ; then, 
without waiting for an answer, resumed : 

“Shal’ we canvass for you, Mr. Ormerod’ 1 used to be 
an adept in the art — ah, how many years ago!” she 
added, with sudden gravity. 

“I am sure Time has not altered you in that respect,” 
said Ormerod, gallantly ; “but are you serious, Lady 
Villebois? Will you really go down to Grasshire this 
autumn?” 

There was an eager tone in his voice that startled her 
somewhat ; A was so utterly unlike the quiet indifference 
of his usual speech. She looked at him keenly. 

“Perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully; “my movements 


98 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


are always uncertain. Vivien, what do you say?” she 
added, with another inquiring glance. 

Vivien had suddenly grown pale ; there was a troubled 
look in her eyes, and the hand which rested on Lady 
Villebois’ chair trembled visibly. Another of those 
strange, warning presentiments, vague, intangible as 
morning mist, had flashed across her brain. What did 
it mean? The proposed visit seemed a thing of no im- 
portance, a trivial incident in the even tenor of her life — 
how could it influence her future? 

“It shall be just as you like, Vivien,” said Lady Ville- 
bois, gently ; for the second time that day she had failed 
to understand the girl’s mood ; “you shall decide whether 
we spend the autumn in Grasshire or go abroad — to 
Rome, Florence, Naples — where you will.” 

Ormerod waited almost breathlessly for Vivien’s de- 
cision ; he felt a sudden, unaccountable desire that the 
two ' ladies should elect to visit Grasshire. He did not 
stop to analyze the feeling which prompted the wish, for 
he was not much given to mental introspection. 

Perhaps the intensity of his desire influenced Vivien. 

“We will go to Compton Magna, if you wish it, Lady 
Villebois,” she said, quietly. “I have seen so little of my 
own country ; most of my life has been ‘ in populous city 
pent,’ and I have heard you say that England is the 
most beautiful country in the world.” 

“Do not quote me against myself, Vivien,” said Lady 
Villebois, deprecatingly. “I know that such an opinion is 
rank heresy, but I do confess to a love for the greenness 
that rests town- wearied eyes, the quiet charm of rural 
scenery, only to be found in perfection in England.” 

‘Then it is settled that you gc down to Grasshire this 
autumn?” said Ormerod, pleased at the gratification of 
his wish ; he was a man who hated even trivial failures. 
“Though I have but lately paid a visit to Compton Mag- 
na, I must plead ignorance of a great deal of its vicinage. 
What is the name of your p.ace. Lady Villebois?” 

‘ ‘Mordaunt’s Rest, ’ she replied, drawing her lace shawl 
about her shoulders, and rising from her chair. “Come, 
Mr. Ormerod, shall we stroll through the rosery? Aou 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


99 


will stay to dinner, of course— that is, if you have no 
other engagement, ” she added, smiling. ‘ 

'I shall be very happy,” said Ormerod, ”if you will 
excuse morning dress. ’ ' 

“Certainly.” 

The three moved away from the deep shade of the 
cedar-tree across the smooth expanse of lawn. The sun 
no longer beat down with the intensity of an hour or two 
since ; a cool breeze had sprung up, a sense of reviving 
freshness was about, the faint, resinous odor of the cedars 
mingled with the richer scent of roses, the air was so 
transparent that the colors of the flowers seemed indued 
with new brilliancy, and the outlines of the copper-beech - 
trees stood out with marvelous distinctness against the 
deep-blue sky. 

“What a glorious evening !” exclaimed Ormerod. 

He was not usually keenly alive to the beauties of Nat- 
ure, but this evening the golden glow of sunlight and the 
delicious balmy softness of the air struck him with a sud- 
den sensation of pleasure. As they ascended to the ter- 
race, Lady Villebois again turned the conversation to the 
subject of the proposed visit to Grasshire. 

“You never chanced on Mordaunt’s Rest, I suppose, 
during your rides?” she asked suddenly of Ormerod. “It 
is sadly neglected. I fear. I have not visited it for years. 
This is my real home," she added, pausing at the top of 
the steps, and turning to survey the charming scene be- 
fore her. f 

“Rollestone House is ‘ dead perfection, ’ ” said Felix, 
looking across the sunlit garden to the giant cedar stand- 
ing dark, and somber, and majestic against the golden 
glory of the western sky. 

They stood silently for some moments ; the thoughts of 
each were pre-occupied. Lady Villebois was pondering 
over some of the long past scenes in her own life — scenes 
enacted among associations which differed widely from 
those which now surrounded her. The mention of her 
Grasshire property had opened an old wound in her heart ; 
some of the bitterest hours of her life had been lived 
through at Mordaunt’s Rest. There the early years of 


100 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


her married life had been passed ; there she had been 
rudely awakened from her dream of happiness ; there 
she had discovered the utter worthlessness of the man she 
had sworn to honor and obey until death parted them ; 
there all her hopes of domestic peace had been rudely 
dashed to the ground. 

Ormerod’s thoughts were occupied with the future; 
the conversation under the shade of the cedar-tree had 
inaugurated a new phase in his life. Vivien Lowry’s rare 
beauty had roused him to unwonted admiration; her 
voice, the peculiar expression of intensity on her face, 
her enthusiasm for the cause she had at heart, woke feel- 
ings he had never yet experienced. In her presence all 
his former theories on the subject of woman’s rightful 
place melted into thin air. This girl was so feminine 
and so winning ; no trace of the masterfulness, the loud- 
voiced self-assertion the arrogant assumption of superi- 
ority he had hitherto associated with mental power in 
woman disfigured the gentle serenity and sweetness of 
her manner. He acknowledged her beauty, he felt the 
charm of her presence, but he scarcely realized the ex- 
tent of the influence she had already acquired over him. 

Already a dim, shadowy doubt crossed his mind 
whether Sybil Le Marchant, gentle and lovable as she 
was, altogether fulfilled his ideal ; already he mentally 
compared her with Vivien. Was not Sybil somewhat 
childish and shallow? He checked the half -formed 
thought as a disloyalty to his betrothed, but the mere 
consciousness that he had compared the two girls gave a 
tinge of embarrassment to his manner for the rest of the 
evening. 

Vivien, on the contrary, entirely regained her compos- 
ure; the momentary disturbance of her calmness left 
no outward trace behind it. She talked to Ormerod with 
earnestness — it was not her nature to be indifferent— but 
she did not again touch on any of the subjects on which 
she felt most strongly. There was a certain latent re- 
serve in her character that forbade her to reveal her 
thoughts except on rare occasions, and then only to those 
with whom she felt in sympathy. As yet her feeling for 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


101 


Ormerod was undefined. She hardly knew whether she 
liked, or. only admired him. Admire him she cer- 
tainly did — there was a certain quiet power about him 
which commanded her admiration; but there was a 
certain hardness, almost harshness about him which re- 
pelled her. She could not yet decide whether this hard- 
ness was only on the surface, or whether it actually 
amounted to a defect of character. Though her sphere 
of observation had hitherto been very limited, she was 
accustomed to study closely those with whom she was 
brought in contact; and Felix Ormerod ’s character in- 
terested her extremely. She thought of him a great deal 
during the few days following his visit to Rollestone 
House, but without arriving at any definite conclusion 
about him. When Lady Villebois sang his praises, she 
listened but made no remark, and when that lively lady 
asked her point-blank what she thought of her “Future 
Prime Minister,” Vivien laughed and declared “that she 
begged to reserve her opinion — a future Prime Minister 
was not to be lightly judged.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

RALPH ATHERSTONE. 

Ormerod had comfortable but not luxurious cham- 
bers in Piccadilly. If there is anything in the theory 
that a man’s rooms always reflect his character and tastes, 
then Ormerod ’s tastes were severely simple, and his char- 
acter was at least free from a love of display. The three 
rooms he occupied when in town were furnished plainly, 
with a view rather to solid comfort than to artistic orna- 
mentation. There were no monstrosities in the way of 
old china, no Queen Anne tables, no bric-a-brac, no mar- 
vels of modern-antique furniture. 

The easy-chairs were comfortable, but simply covered 
with leather of a sober hue ; a business-like writing-table 
was the most prominent object in the room Ormerod used 


102 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


as a study— a room which an ordinary young man of am- 
ple means would have converted into a sort of masculine 
boudoir, enriched with the spoil of Wardour Street and 
decked with any amount of artistic frippery. But Or- 
merod cared for none of these things. The writing-table 
was strewn with blue-books, the walls were lined from 
floor to ceiling with ponderous volumes — abstruse works 
on all sorts of subjects : Law, Political Economy, Fi- 
nance, Political History. This ambitious young man 
“scorned delights and lived laborious days” in grim ear- 
nest. His reading, though eminently practical, had been 
extensive ; he knew something of a great many things ; 
he had accumulated a vast amount of information, and 
he had studied deeply those subjects necessary for one 
who aspired to be a statesman. 

His intellect, if not of the loftiest order, was undenia- 
bly fine. If he had little of the fire of true genius, he 
was free from that nervous excitability and unrestf ulness 
which so often accompany that divine essence. His tal- 
ents were solid rather than brilliant ; they commanded 
respect, even admiration, but did not rouse enthusiasm. 

Ormerod’s failure to carry his hearers with him when 
he addressed a large audience — and that he did so fail no 
one knew better than himself — was perhaps owing to his 
own lack of that magical and irresistible £lan — that pas- 
sion of conviction which carries away the listener often 
against his will and his cooler reason. Still he was a man 
for whom any acute observer might safely predict success. 
He was not of the stuff of which failures are made. His 
quiet, dogged determination to achieve success was alone 
almost sufficient to win it. Years ago he had laid to heart 
the hackneyed but wise maxim that “everything comes 
to the man who can wait.” He would wait, his patience 
was boundless ; and his ambitious dreams would be real- 
ized. Meanwhile, he was content to work — and work 
hard, because he never doubted that all he wished for 
would one day be his. 

On the morning following his visit to Rollestone House, 
Ormerod applied himself as usual to his books, but was 
vexed to find that, for some inexplicable reason, his mind 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


103 


obstinately turned away from the abstruse work on Po- 
litical Economy on which he was trying to concentrate 
his thoughts. The well-balanced sentences conveyed no 
meaning to him; he thrust both hands through his hair, 
bent over the heavy volume with knitted brows and reso- 
lutely re-read the passage. No, it was useless. Frag- 
ments of yesterday’s conversation under the shade of the 
cedar-tree and in Lady Villebois’ drawing-room obtruded 
themselves on his memory, and usurped the place of the 
elaborate calculations he was trying to master. He 
frowned and bit his lips ; he was a hard task-master to 
himself, and never yet had he allowed any vagrant fan- 
cies to come between him and his work. 

“What a blockhead I am this morning!” he muttered, 
impatiently. “Positively I have read this passage over 
three times, and have not the vaguest idea what it is 
about.” 

He read the knotty passage once more, but his thoughts 
wandered off again, and before his mind’s eye arose a 
vision of a woman’s face — a face soul-lit, impassioned, 
and beautiful as a poet’s ideal — a face with deep-gray 
eyes which met his with a clear, frank gaze — the face of 
Vivien Lowry. 

“That girl has, I am sure, an uncommon character,” 
mused Ormerod. “I no longer wonder at the contradict- 
ory rumors I have heard about her. Some people call 
her merely ‘odd,’ but she has certainly none of the exter- 
nal eccentricities of dress or manner which usually dis- 
tinguish oddities. Her ideas of life may be ‘ odd/ for 
they are certainly peculiar, especially in a young and 
beautiful woman — but I should never class her merely 
as an ‘oddity.’ To begin with, I dislike the epithet. 
Again, I have heard her caljed ‘ a genius. ’ Perhaps she 
is. She is certainly original ; and originality is an at- 
tribute of genius. I shall be more able to judge her when 
I know her better. She interests me keenly ; so I shall 
make a point of calling at Rollestone House as soon as I 
can conveniently do so. At any rate, the world is right 
in one of its verdicts ; every one seems to agree that she 
is beautiful. She is, and in a greater degree than any 


104 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


woman I have yet seen. What a picture she made stand- 
ing against the dark bole of the cedar-tree in her white 
gown t Millais should have painted her just as she stood 
there — with that ray of sunlight on her hair and brow ! 
Sybil— dear child— for she is, after all, but a child, and a 
very sweet and loving one, too — Yes ; I should like her 
to know Miss Lowry. It is strange that she was so per- 
sistent in trying to learn something about Lady Villebois’ 
proUgee. Well, as that lady seems inclined to go down 
to Grasshiro this autumn, it is by no means improbable 
that they may meet — ” 

How long Ormerod ’s soliloquy (it was not uttered 
aloud, after the manner of stage heroes) would have 
lasted, it is impossible to say ; but, at that moment, he 
was roused from his musings by a sharp knock at the door. 

“Come in,” he called out, without looking round. 

He expected no visitors, and the intruder was prob- 
ably only his servant, with a note or telegram from one 
of his political friends. The door opened, and some one 
entered the room. But the quick, firm step was not the 
cautious tread of a menial, and the deep, hearty tones 
which uttered the brief greeting, “Well, Ormerod, old 
fellow, I have run you to earth at last!” were certainly 
not those of his well-trained valet. 

“Ralph Atherstone! by all that’s wonderful,” cried 
Ormerod, springing up, and confronting his visitor. 
“Where in the world have you come from?” 

“Is that your welcome, O friend of my youth?” 
laughed the other. “Well, well, I forgive you. You 
and I were never of the demonstrative sort.” 

The two men shook hands with a cordiality that rather 
gave the lie to the assertion. 

“Glad to see you, for all that,” said Ormerod, heartily. 
“Sit down, and light up. I know you can’t talk sensi- 
bly, or even connectedly, without the aid of tobacco. 
You will find some tolerable cigars in that box.” 

“I take you at your word,” said Atherstone, helping 
himself from the receptacle indicated, “though I scorn 
the insinuation that my brain requires a stimulant before 
it can work to any purpose.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


105 


Ormerocl laughed and leisurely selected a cigar, lit it, 
and then, leaning back in his chair, abandoned himself 
to the enjoyment of the weed, which some term perni- 
cious and others soothing. 

“Your first question,” began Atherstone, with mock 
gravity— “I call it your first advisedly, for I foresee that 
it will be followed by many others — was, ‘ Where have I 
come from?’ I answer: in the immediate present, from 
a hansom which conveyed me from my hotel to your in- 
hospitable diggings ; in the near past, from on board the 
ocean-steamer Calyx , which conveyed me from New 
York; in the remote past, from Omaha, Idaho, San 
Francisco, Japan, China, and a few other countries. I 
have, in short, occupied the five years which have elapsed 
since we parted in what the Americans call c globe-trot- 
ting. ’ In more finished phrase, I have traversed the 
greater part of the habitable earth, made the acquaint- 
ance of all sorts and conditions of men; and, I hope, 
have acquired a tolerable stock of useful information. ’ ’ 

“You were always an unsettled mortal,” remarked Or- 
merod, dryly. “I hope you have had your fill of wan- 
dering at last, and mean to settle down as a peaceful 
citizen and a useful member of society.” 

“I don’t think you, or any man, can accuse me of pug- 
nacity; my usefulness is still questionable.” 

“I mean, rather,” said Ormerod, in a graver tone, “do 
you intend to resume the practice of the profession you 
thought fit to throw up five years ago?” 

“Do I mean to go in for feeling pulses and looking at 
tongues? — in brief, do I mean to practice as a doctor? 
No ; there is too much chicanery, too much charlatanism 
in the medical profession to suit me. I speak, of course, 
of the ordinary medicos of every-day life ; for the great 
ones of medical science I have nothing but respect and 
admiration. Of course, I do not think all the humbler 
members of the profession are contemptible — God forbid ; 
but my experience of the fraternity was an unfortunate 
one, and has given me a distaste for the whole tribe. No ; 
whatever my faults arc, I am not a humbug, so I don’t 
mean to go in for doctoring.” 


106 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“And you were once such an enthusiast !” 

Atherstone laughed a short and somewhat cynical 
laugh, but made no retort. 

“Then may I ask what is your object in returning to 
England ?” asked Ormerod. 

“I am, for the moment, sick of travel, and I am writ- 
ing a book — or, rather, I mean to write one, for the ma- 
terials are but simmering in my brain.” 

“Write a book by all means, and I will cut it up in a 
review. A knowledge of one’s faults is the most bracing 
of mental tonics. ’ ’ 

“Cut my book up, will you? — and you don’t even know 
the subject. You’re a nice sort of conscientious critic.” 

“The subject is quite a secondary consideration. I 
shall read your book with the settled determination of 
finding fault with it — that is the secret of severe criticism 
—and I shall succeed in finding out all the weak places 
in your literary armor. So look out. ’ ’ 

“So I will when the book is written; meanwhile, I 
shall take the liberty of keeping the subject to myself, 
and thus excite your curiosity, which I can see is already 
aroused at the very fact that I intend to perpetrate au- 
thorship. Not that there is anything wonderful in that ; 
as the cacoethes scribendi is the most widespread of social 
ailments, it is not to be expected that I should escape it. ’ ’ 

Ormerod looked keenly at the speaker ; he knew, none 
better, in spite of his tone of half -cynical banter, that 
Atherstone’s intellect was much above the average. In 
their college days the two men had been close friends, 
though Atherstone was Ormerod ’s senior by two or 
three years. In their respective ways they were equally 
gifted, although the younger man’s talents were* more 
calculated to command success in life, 

Ormerod had a strong liking for facts, while Ather- 
stone was eminently speculative and something of a 
dreamer — he loved to ponder the remoter possibilities of 
science, and abstract theories of life. Atherstone’s read- 
ing had extended to all sorts of out-of-the-way lore, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


107 


while Ormerod had gone steadily on in the particular 
path he had chosen, swerving neither to the right nor to 
the left to wander among the by-ways his friend loved. 

In externals the two men were as dissimilar as in men- 
tal conformation. Atherstone lacked the charm of man- 
ner which distinguished Ormerod. Though his features 
were more correct, they were cast in a rougher mold, 
and there was about him an air of sturdy independence 
which made those who observed him closely feel that he 
was a man who held strong opinions — and held them 
with tenacity. His fine eyes met yours with a bold and 
hardy glance, as if to say, ‘ T fear neither you nor any 
man alive.” They were besides undeniably fine eyes — 
their expression varied with every passing emotion ; they 
were alternately dreamy and vivacious, earnest and pen- 
etrating, sometimes, though rarely, tender. His lips 
were firm, his jaw powerful ; on the whole, it was a face 
that roused interest rather than admiration. In stature 
he was slightly above middle height, well-knit and mus- 
cular in figure, and he bore himself rather with the ease 
which accompanies great strength than with* the ease 
that is the result of grace of form. 

‘ I see that your travels have not cured you of your 
crotchets,” said Ormerod, smiling, as he met his friend’s 
eyes — they were lit with half -cynical humor at that mo- 
ment. ‘T never knew such a fellow for flinging away 
his best chances in life. With your talents you might 
have risen to the very highest position in any profession. 
You might have succeeded in any vocation — politics, law, 
medicine, to say nothing of the Church or of either of 
the fighting professions.” 

‘'But, my good fellow — pray spare me the flow of your 
oratorical eloquence — that is exactly 4 the head and front 
* of my offending. ’ I might have done much had I known 
clearly what my vocation was. I did not know it years 
ago. and I don’t know it now. If I did, I should ask 
nothing better from Fate than to follow it with all my 
heart and soul. You know what Carlyle says : ‘The man 
is blessed who has found his work ; let h i m ask no other 
blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose; he has 


108 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


found it and will follow it. ’ I have not found my life- 
purpose, and I don’t suppose I shall now.” 

“What nonsense! — why, you can’t be more than two 
or three and thirty : life is only just beginning for you.” 

“Perhaps; but I doubt it. I think if a man has not 
discovered the purpose for which he was born into the 
world before he is thirty, he is in great danger of never 
- doing so. ’ ’ 

“Nonsense! Look at some of our best and greatest 
men ; have they not developed late in life?” 

“Granted; but I am not of that order,” retorted Ather- 
stone, coolly. “But enough of this egotistical talk. I 
have had too much^of my own society of late. I came 
here this morning to seek yours, not to discuss the very 
remote chances of my success in life. Let me kear how 
you have spent the years since I left England. Rumors 
have reached me even across the Atlantic that you are 
considered what is called ‘ a promising young man’ — are 
you?” 

Ormerod laughed. 

“That question is a facer. I really must decline to an- 
swer it,” he said, lightly ; “but I can tell you how I have 
spent the last five years — in hard work. ’ ’ 

“To qualify yourself for still harder, I suppose, when you 
become one of the shining lights of St. Stephen’s. But 
haven’t you done anything else but work? — haven’t you 
even fallen in love, or are you above such follies? By 
heaven ! you change color ! I have found you out ! Out 
with your confession — make a clean breast of it without 
delay.” 

“Fallen in love!” said Ormerod, with a slightly em- 
barrassed laugh— “well, I don’t know about that— you 
know I was never sentimental— but I am certainly en- 
gaged to be married. ’ ’ 

“Wish you joy, my dear fellow, with all my heart,” 
said Atherstone, suddenly dropping his bantering man- 
ner and holding out his hand. “Who is the lady?” 

“Sybil Le Marchant.” 

As the name passed Ormerod ’s lips, his hand clasped 
Atherstone’s, and for a moment both were silent. A 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


109 


shadow fell on the latter’s face ; pne of those strange 
flashes of what, for want of a better word, is called “fore- 
knowledge” had passed through his brain. He could not 
understand the feeling ; though he was imaginative in a 
high degree, he was not morbid. Ormerod seemed to 
catch a reflex of his friend’s thought, and he, too, was 
vaguely troubled. 

“Do you know her?” he said, in some surprise. “But 
no, she was only a child when you left England.” 

“I never saw the young lady that I know of,” said 
Atherstone, trying to speak in his usual careless manner ; 
“perhaps I knew her in a previous existence,” he added, 
smiling. 

“You may have heard the name of Le Marchant be- 
fore,” remarked Ormerod, carelessly. 

“It is possible,” said the other, indifferently — “indeed, 
now you mention it, the name has certainly a familiar 
sound. Le Marchant — let me think ; perhaps I attended 
some one of that name during my brief career as a doc- 
tor. As it is a period which holds few pleasant recollec- 
tions, I have striven to forget it. I daresay my associa- 
tion with the name of Le Marchant will return some 
time or other. Of course the young lady herself is every- 
thing that is charming; I remember your fastidious 
taste.” 

“She is very pretty,” said Ormerod, slowly, “and very 
simple and child-like ; you know I always hated strong- 
minded women.” 

He spoke sharply, as if he were angry with himself 
— as if he meant to convince himself of the truth of his 
words. Yes ; he did hate strong-minded women — he had 
always hated them, and he did so still. True, he had 
been betrayed into a temporary apostasy from his creed ; 
he had been surprised into admiring a woman whose 
mind was certainly not weak. But could Miss Lowry be 
called precisely “strong-minded”? The term was so as- 
sociated with qualities she certainly did not possess that 
Ormerod was averse to apply it to her. No ; he resolved 
to think of her simply as the most beautiful woman he 
had ever seen. Her mental qualities were nothing to 


110 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


him. Why should he not admire her as he would a beau- 
tiful picture or statue? There was no harm in that, cer- 
tainly no disloyalty to Sybil. 

Atherstone, who was a keen observer, saw the troubled 
look on his friend’s face, and wondered what was passing 
in his mind. 

“Very pretty, very simple, and child-like,” he repeated, 
smiling slightly. “A charming description. Of course 
you are devoted to each other?” 

“Of course,” echoed Ormerod, absently. 

“Is Miss Le Marchant in London now? Am I likely to 
meet her during my stay here?’ 

“Not unless you mean to spend some months in town. 
Mr. and Mrs. Le Marchant do not intend to come up this 
season.” 

“Where do the Le Marcliants live?” persisted Ather- 
stone, who seemed prompted by some indefinable feeling 
of curiosity regarding the family of his friend’s betrothed, 
though that eminently vulgar vice seldom swayed him. 

“At Dallas Towers, near Compton Magna, in Gras- 
sliire,” replied Ormerod, carelessly. 

“At Dallas Towers!” repeated Atherstone, starting. 
“Why, what an odd thing! The name of Dallas seems 
even more familiar to me than that of Le Marchant.” 

“It is not such an uncommon name.” 

“Neither is it a very common one. Dallas ! Yes, cer- 
tainly I have some past association with the name, which 
I cannot for the moment recall. Five years spent in 
strange lands dulls some memories, and completely blots 
out others. I daresay this particular one is only dulled, 
not obliterated. Be that as it may,” he added, lightly; 
“I won’t bore you by recounting d liaut voix my mental 
processes, so I will wish you good-morning. My brain 
being preoccupied in trying to rouse dormant recollec- 
tion, I know I shall be stupid company.” 

He rose as he spoke, shook hands with Ormerod, and 
left the room as abruptly as he had entered it. 

“What an odd fellow he is,” soliloquized Felix, smil- 
ing. “Just the same clever, foolish, unpractical, contra- 
dictory being he used to be at college ! What a piece of 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Ill 


quixotism it was, that fancy of his for being a doctor. 
Imagine a man of his talents going through the drudgery 
of hospital work, as he did, because he had a fancy for 
'doing good in his generation ! ’ And now he is bitter 
against the profession he once exalted to the skies, be- 
cause he happened to be associated for a time with a ras- 
cally doctor. The whole thing was folly. How could he 
hope to succeed? He is too thin-skinned. Atherstone is 
not of the stuff of which fashionable physicians are made. 
In spite of all his oddities, though, I always liked the fel- 
low. By-the-by, I wonder how he and Miss Lowry 
would get on together — they would certainly agree on 
many points . . . . ” 

And so his thoughts wandered off again to Vivien, un- 
til he checked them sternly, and tried to cheat himself 
into the belief that he was really reading to some pur- 
pose. But, after half-an-hour’s struggle, he threw his 
task aside, and, as it was clearly impossible to fix his 
mind on political economy, he decided that for once he 
would be frivolous. So he spent another half-hour in mak- 
ing a careful toilet, and then sauntered out to enjoy the 
rest of the morning under the trees in the Row. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A RETROSPECT. 

When Atherstone left Ormerod’s rooms, he paced 
along Piccadilly rapidly, but quite at random. He had 
nothing particular to do that morning, and, as after five 
years’ absence the once familiar streets of the metropolis 
had something of the charm of novelty for him, he found 
sufficient amusement in watching the ever-varying kalei- 
doscope of London life. 

Piccadilly was as crowded as it usually is on a bright 
morning in June, and the movement and bustle around 
him had an exhilarating effect on Atherstone ’s mind. 

“After all, London is the center of the universe— at 


112 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


least, to an Englishman,” he thought, as he sauntered 
along, “and the pulse of life beats strongest here.” 

He felt glad to be back again in the well-known thor- 
oughfares ; they were full of associations for him — some 
pleasant, some painful. Though he had spoken scoffingly 
to Ormerod of that period of his life when enthusiasm 
and love for his fellows had prompted him to turn aside 
from the more brilliant paths which had once opened be- 
fore him to adopt a profession that, whatever its detract- 
ors may say, is one of the noblest a man can follow. 

With his high and perhaps somewhat quixotic ideas, it 
Avas unfortunate that, at the A^ery earliest stage of his 
career, he had been associated Avith one whose aims in life 
Avere low and selfish. He had imagined an ideal view of 
a doctor’s mission; his first practical experience showed 
him the reverse of the picture. Atherstone Avas a con- 
scientious man, and he loved truth above all things. 
Imagine, therefore, the painful ordeal it Avas to him to 
be in constant association with one Avho cared for little 
else but money-getting ; who added pound to pound with 
greedy eagerness, and looked on his patients simply as so 
many paying speculations ; Avho could flatter an hypo- 
chondriac peer, pander to the tastes of a gossip-loving 
doAvager, and humor the Avhims of any number of aristo- 
cratic malades imaginaires, because it paid him to do so. 
Fat old Lady Oldacres’ fanciful ailments were worth a 
couple of hundred a year to him, then why, argued this 
astute Esculapius, should he tell her Avith brutal, if truth- 
ful, frankness that there Avas really nothing the matter 
with her that air, exercise and that Avonderful panacea 
“something to do” would not cure? 

Augustus Fletcher had made up his mind early in life 
that the role of a fashionable physician Avould suit him ex- 
actly, and, though at the time Atherstone bought half his 
practice he had not yet attained to that emfiable position, 
he was getting on rapidly, and Avas considered a rising 
man in his profession. 

Atherstone was soon disgusted Avith his colleague’s ig- 
norance, conceit and worldliness; and Avas tempted to 
forfeit the money he had paid for the privilege of doing 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


113 


the unremunerated work shirked by Fletcher, and throw 
up the whole thing. But a sort of stubborn pride forbade 
him to take this drastic measure. The friends who had 
vainly tried to dissuade him from adopting a profession 
they thought unsuited to his position should not have the 
satisfaction of taunting him with that peculiarly aggra- 
vating reproach, “I told you so.” For two years he la- 
bored on, chafing at the enforced companionship with 
such a man as Augustus Fletcher ; for two years he 
bowed his neck to the yoke, working early and late, re- 
nouncing all society, devoting his days to patient plod- 
ding at the drudgery of his profession and his nights to 
study. Then one day in a fit of disgust he broke his 
bonds, and, shaking the dust of London off his feet, went 
to America. 

To-day, as he strolled idly through the crowded streets, 
Atherstone recalled that disagreeable chapter in his life 
— a chapter that he had done his best to forget during the 
past five years. It is not a pleasant thing for a man to 
dwell on the mistakes he has made, and, as far as he 
could, Atherstone had endeavored to blot out the remem- 
brance of his brief career as a doctor ; but the conversa- 
tion with Ormerod had forced his thoughts back into old 
channels. As he walked on with bent head and abstracted 
mien, many bitter memories surged through his brain. 
He recalled the numerous humiliations he had been 
forced to endure, the bitter disappointment, the disgust 
he felt as he saw behind the scenes of Augustus Fletch- 
er’s life. 

“What a knave and what a fool the fellow was!” he 
thought, as he recalled some of the fashionable phy- 
sician’s worldly maxims. “I daresay he thought me a 
fool for not being a knave. How well I remember some 
of his patients, or rather his dupes, that would be the 
better word — Lady Methuselah, with her pooclle, her 
neuralgia, her evangelical parson, and her 'dear, kind Dr. 
Fletcher !’ Well, well, I suppose the fellow knew on 
which side his bread was buttered. By-the-by, what a 
world of cynical humor there is in some of those old say- 
ings !” 


114 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Atherstone was so wrapped in thought that he was per- 
fectly unconscious of his whereabouts. He had turned up 
Bond Street, and again diverged into a quieter thorough- 
fare. Memory is a strange thing, and trifles will some- 
times recall important events. Atherstone came to a cor- 
ner where two streets met; he paused absently and 
looked up at the name of the street: “Brook Street.” 
Suddenly there flashed across his mind the name of Le 
Marchant — Le Marchant, Brook Street ; the two names in 
association recalled as if by magic an incident in his past 
life, the remembrance of which five years of travel and 
adventure had well-nigh obliterated. Le Marchant — 
Brook Street. Yes, he remembered it all now clearly. 
He walked musingly on until he reached the house from 
whence unhappy Tristram Lowry had turned away in 
bitterness and anger one cold January night. 

Atherstone paused and looked up at the windows. The 
balconies were bright with gay summer flowers, and the 
tones of a piano were wafted toward him. There was a 
look of prosperity about the house ; the paint was clean 
and fresh, the steps well whitened, the brass knocker 
flashed like gold in the sunshine. 

“I wonder who lives here now,” he mused. “I suppose 
my old patient Mr. Dallas has paid Nature’s debt long ago. 
Well, of course it was no concern of mine, but I always 
thought it a queer affair about that will. I remember I 
felt an interest in the old man ; he seemed so desolate 
and weighed down by care ; and he was so afraid of that 
black-browed nephew of his, Le Marchant. Le Marchant 
— by-the-by, that is the name of Ormerod’s fiancee. Won- 
der if she is any relation of the Le Marchant I saw five years 
ago in this house? She may be ; it isn’t a common name. 
Ah ! of course she must be, though ; Ormerod said her 
people lived at a place called Dallas Towers. Odd that I 
should have been mixed up in the affairs of Ormerod’s 
future wife’s relations. At the time, I know I didn’t like 
the look of Le Marchant at all. Clever rascal, I should 
say, judging from his phiz ; but I never like men whose 
eyebrows run up obliquely— they’re not to be trusted. I’ll 
ask Ormerod, when I see him again, when Dallas died, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


115 


and whether this Le Marchant succeeded to the property. 
I daresay that rascal Fletcher knows all about it, but I 
don’t choose to renew my acquaintance with him.” 

Here Atherstone, seeing that his scrutiny of the house 
was exciting the curiosity of the passers-by, and of a 
smart housemaid looking out of one of the upper win- 
dows, resumed his walk, still meditating on the strange 
chapter of accidents which had brought to his remem- 
brance that half -forgotten circumstance of his visit to the 
house in Brook Street. Other thoughts and other inter- 
ests, however, soon came to occupy his mind, and he let 
the matter slip from his memory in happy unconscious- 
ness that future events would again recall it at a very 
important crisis of his life. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AN AFTERNOON CALL. 

Ormerod kept his resolution : he seized the first avail- 
able opportunity of again calling on Lady Villebois. The 
inexplicable manner in which Miss Lowry’s face had 
come between him and his studies, on the morning of 
Atherstone’s unexpected appearance, puzzled him con- 
siderably. He could not understand why she had made 
such an impression upon him. It could not be merely her 
beauty. He had seen women almost, if not quite, as 
beautiful, and they had never awakened any feeling in 
him stronger than admiration. But this girl was unlike 
any other woman he had ever met. He was sure that 
under that quiet exterior lay immense possibilities of no- 
bleness, of self-sacrifice, of womanly courage — but was 
she not cold? 

“I wonder what effect love would have on such a char- 
acter as hers,” he thought; “if a woman like Vivien 
Lowry ever could love. Perhaps she is incapable of such 
a sentiment. I cannot tell ; I have never seen any one 
like her before.” 


116 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


He never for a moment thought that the most thrilling 
experience in a woman’s life had not yet come to Vivien. 
The kindling flame of love had not yet fallen from 
heaven. She was- not yet thoroughly human ; she was 
fair as Pygmalion’s statue before the breath of life was 
breathed into it, but was she not as cold? True, her face 
had kindled with feeling as she spoke of the sorrow and 
suffering of the poor — she had not seemed cold then — but 
did she not lack the warm, loving tenderness of a girl 
like Sybil? Perhaps she did; he would watch her. It 
would be an interesting study of character to do so. He 
knew so little of feminine human nature. 

He had been accustomed to look on women as ciphers 
in the political world —and that was his world — and he 
disliked the fashionable lady politicians he met in society. 
But Miss Lowry, he felt sure, was no mere cipher — and 
he certainly did not dislike her. Why should he? she 
was as unlike the typical female politician as she was, to 
the typical ‘‘strong-minded” woman his soul abhorred. 
It was vexing to find that Miss Lowry could not be 
classed with any of the varieties of the sex he had hither- 
to seen — Ormerod was fond of classification. She was 
not a fashionable young lady ; not a coquette ; not a 
woman with a mission ; net a blue-stocking — what was 
she? 

During his ride to Chiswick, Ormerod pondered the 
subject. But when he drew rein at Rollestone House he 
was as far from arriving at any conclusion on the subject 
as when he mounted his horse in Piccadilly. He decided 
that it would be more easy to form an opinion when he 
had seen the young lady again. 

Lady Villebois was at home, and Ormerod was ushered 
into the long, low, old-fashioned drawing-room — an 
apartment that had a certain celebrity of its own, because 
during the past forty years Lady Villebois had enter- 
tained in it some of the most brilliant lights of the politi- 
cal, literary, and artistic worlds. It was a charming 
room, with long, French windows opening out on the 
terrace. The tastes of its owner were indicated in many 
small ways. A grand piano stood in a prominent posi- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


117 


tion, not hustled away ignominiously in a corner, but oc- 
cupying a place worthy of its glorious tones. Books of 
all sorts— not merely the conventional morocco and gilt 
editions of the poets, which are generally considered 
most suitable for drawing-room perusal — were scattered 
about in orderly disorder. The pictures on the walls 
were gems of their various schools ; portfolios, full of 
rare prints, stood on low easels. It was a room that told 
of daily occupancy, and consequently there was not a 
trace of the prim neatness— that foe to real comfort— 
which disfigures the majority of drawing-rooms. 

Ormerod walked to one of the open windows, and 
looked out across to the cedar-tree, under whose shade he 
half expected to see the two ladies sitting. But he was 
disappointed. The garden was deserted. He turned 
quickly at the sound of an opening door and of a little 
gush of song. The room was long, and Ormerod was half 
hidden by the curtains which draped the window. He 
guessed the singer must be Vivien, and came forward at 
once, though the temptation to watch her unseen for a 
moment was strong. Her song brdfce off abruptly as she 
caught sight of him, and she looked a little embarrassed 
as she held out her hand. She had not heard of Orme- 
rod ’s arrival ; and a sudden feeling of shyness brought a 
rush of color to her face. 

“How do you do, Miss Lowry?” said Ormerod, smiling. 
Her evident embarrassment gave him a consciousness of 
calm self-possession that was very pleasant. 

This odd girl had on several occasions made him feel 
vaguely dissatisfied with himself. It was agreeable to 
him to think that he had her at a disadvantage. But 
Vivien’s habitual serenity of manner soon returned to her. 

“I had no idea you were in the roopi, Mr. Ormerod,” 
she said, frankly; “or I should certainly not have treat- 
ed you to a musical impromptu.” 

“Do not apologize for letting me hear a few notes of a 
fine voice.” 

Vivien looked at him in undisguised wonder. Foi\a 
moment, an idea had flashed through her mind that he 
spoke in satire ; but she put the thought aside as she met 


118 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


liis direct gaze. Vivien was keenly sensitive to ridicule, 
especially on any point on which she fancied herself de- 
ficient. She loved music, and the fact that she lacked 
even the rudiments of a musical education was a contin- 
ual source of regret to her. Her voice was a gift of Nat- 
ure. It was powerful, sweet, and thrilling, but entirely 
uncultivated ; and she was particularly averse to its dis- 
play. 

“I know nothing of music,” she said, with a slight flush 
of vexation on her cheeks ; “and I do not sing.” 

“I never venture to contradict a lady,” remarked Fe- 
lix ; ‘ ‘but at the same time I must enter a protest against 
tlie last statement. ’ ’ 

Vivien bit her lip ; she began to think that, after all, 
her first impression had been a true one. Mr. Ormerod 
2vas sarcastic. The color deepened in her cheeks ; she 
could not help that, but she was resolved not to show by 
her manner that she was vexed or hurt, and she quietly 
began to talk of something else. 

Ormerod was somewhat amused at the serious way in 
which she had taken a compliment which any one versed 
in the usages of society would have accepted and lightly 
passed off. He did not know that the' consciousness of 
her deficiency in those accomplishments which form part 
of every well-brought-up young lady’s education made 
her extremely sensitive to anything like ridicule. Indeed, 
he had accustomed himself to think of her as so richly 
dowered with mental gifts that the absence of such mere 
surface culture never struck him as a thing to be regret- 
ted or even missed in Vivien. As he knew little or noth- 
ing of her early history, he could not guess that every 
casual reference to what many people would have called 
her lack of education roused sad memories of why that 
lack existed. He did not know this, but he was observant 
enough to see that she was pained, and, though he was 
perfectly innocent of any intention of satirizing her, he 
felt that he had been guilty of a gaucherie in attempting 
to compliment her. She puzzled him more than ever. 
Hfe wondered why she seemed so sensitive. Other women 
took compliments readily, some even greedily. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


119 


“I suppose this is one of the things that make people 
call Miss Lowry odd,” he thought. 

At that moment their brief tete-a-tete was summarily 
ended by Lady Villebois, who entered the room and 
greeted Ormerod with her usual bright grace. That 
quick-witted lady saw the look of pain in Vivien’s eyes, 
and the slightly puzzled expression on Ormerod’s face. 
She feared that her two favorites were not getting on 
well together, and she wondered on what subject they 
had already contrived to disagree. It was vexing, be- 
cause she particularly wished them to like each other. 
Nay, more ; though she was the last person in the world 
to turn match-maker, it had crossed her mind that the 
two were particularly well-suited to each other in char- 
acter, and that possibly they might some day find it out. 
Of course she knew nothing of Ormerod’s engagement to 
Sybil Le Marchant, or the shadowy little air-castle she 
had been amusing herself in building would never have 
been reared. 

Women of vivid imagination and active brain are often 
guilty of weaving these innocent romances for the people 
about them, even when they have arrived at an age when 
such follies are supposed to have been long since put 
aside as one of the pleasant “childish things” belonging 
to the bright period of youth. 

Lady Villebois, in spite of her threescore years and ten, 
had still a keen love of romance, when it did not degen- 
erate into sickly sentimentality. Perhaps this love of 
romance was one of the things that kept her heart so 
fresh and youthful, that made her sympathies so warm 
and so wide. It was certainly one of the causes of her 
wide popularity with young people. 

“We have quite made up our minds to goto Mordaunt's 
Rest this year,” said Lady Villebois, suddenly, when Or- 
merod had made the usual inquiries after her health, and 
paid the usual conversational tribute to a topic universal- 
ly discussed in England, i.e., the weather. “As the at- 
tractions of the London season pall on me after some fifty 
years’ experience, .and as Miss Lowry differs from most 
girls in preferring the fresh air and quiet of the country 


120 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


to the stifling heat and vapid chatter of London drawing- 
rooms, it is possible that we may migrate from town a 
month earlier than we intended. I mean to write and 
give orders for a general setting-to-right of the house and 
grounds. ’ ’ 

Ormerod’s face brightened. 

“I am so glad,” he said, cordially. “I hope to spend 
some weeks in Grasshire this autumn — and,” he added, 
hesitating slightly, “I have some friends there whose ac- 
quaintance I hope you and Miss Lowry will make. ” 

He wished to tell Lady Villebois of his engagement to 
Sybil, out a species of mauvaise honte forbade him. 
Though Ormerod could not be called a shy man, he was 
by nature reserved, and he had a horror of boring people 
with his private affairs. So, though the words which in 
all probability would have changed the course of several 
lives hovered on his lips, he checked himself, and the op- 
portunity of speaking them passed away. 

“We shall be charmed to do so,” said Lady Villebois. 
graciously. “I daresay there are many changes in Gras- 
shire society since I was last at Mordaunt’s Rest. All the 
people I knew fifty years ago will no doubt be dead and 
forgotten, and I shall be made to feel that I am one of 
the veterans who lag superfluous on life’s stage.” 

She spoke lightly, but there was an undercurrent of 
sadness in her tone. It seemed as if the mere mention of 
the scene of her early sorrows was sufficient to wake sad 
memories. 

“No doubt you will find changes among the Grasshire 
people,” said Ormerod. “In these days of rapidly-ac- 
quired fortunes one is often amazed to find the man re- 
ceived to-day in what used to be the most exclusive soci- 
ety who yesterday was considered quite outside the pale. ' 

“It is all a question of money nowadays,' remarked 
Lady Villebois, with a shrug and a sigh; “we are fast 
degenerating from an aristocracy to a plutocracy, and I. 
‘as one solitary individual,’ don’t think the change will 
be an improvement. For my part, I think there is noth 
ing more contemptible than the worship of money for 
money’s sake, which seems to be the characteristic of 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


121 


this age. A man may be deficient in every quality that 
deserves admiration ; he may be narrow-minded, vulgar, 
arrogant, but if only his income can be reckoned by six 
figures he is in a manner deified. *My ideas on political 
economy would astonish you, Mr. Ormerod,” she added, 
smiling. “Do you know that I think the gigantic in- 
comes of some half-dozen of those plutocrats are a posi- 
tive scandal. They ought to be cut down by act of Parli- 
ament, and out of their superfluous wealth should be 
created a State Fund for use in any national emergency, 
so that that haunting terror to Chancellors of the Ex- 
chequer— the necessity for adding an extra penny to the 
Income Tax — may be obviated. Think of the rejoicing 
there would be among the toiling, moiling middle-classes, 
who live in a perpetual struggle to keep up a respectable 
appearance, and yet keep out of debt !” 

“But,” said Ormerod, quietly, “suppose, by an arbi- 
trary exercise of power, you did cut down these gigantic- 
fortunes, would you not take away one of the incentives 
to work which now encourages many a man to struggle 
out of poverty to wealth?” 

“And a very good thing, too!” replied her ladyship, 
boldly. “A man should be content with moderate 
wealth. If he has enough to live in comfort, even in lux- 
ury — enough to educate his children, and fit them for 
their fight with the world — is not that enough? Is it not 
a fact that great wealth hardens people’s hearts ; that ex- 
cessive luxury dulls the intellect, just as it enervates the 
body? I think the most unfortunate thing that can be- 
fall a young man is to inherit a fortune which makes 
work of any sort unnecessary. Don’t you think that a 
man who knows that unless he works — and works hard — 
he will not be able to enjoy the rest from labor which is 
the rightful prerogative of old age? Don’t you think 
that a man who has spent his youth in work will be far 
nobler than a man who has only lived to enjoy himself 
from the hour of his birth to the hour of his death?” 

“Granted. But are you not begging the question a lit- 
tle, Lady Villebois?” said Felix, smiling. “What I 
argued was, would not one of the most powerful incent- 


122 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


ives to work be removed, if any limit were placed to the 
acquisition of wealth?” 

“I think not. After all, wealth is only comparative. 
If, say, fifty thousand a year was the maximum, and no 
one possessed more, would not that sum carry as much 
social importance with it as an income of two hundred 
and fifty thousand does now? And then,” she went on, 
with enthusiasm, “think, in time of any severe depression 
of trade or agriculture, how easy it would be to relieve 
distress out of that ‘National Fund’ of my dreams !” 

“I thought you intended that for purposes of national 
defense,” said Ormerod. “Ladies are, strange to say, 
always on the side of war.” 

“Defense is not war,” retorted Lady Villebois, quickly ; 
“and I don’t mean to allow you to sneer at my sex. 
Women are not such fools as men try to believe them. I 
am quite tired of hearing about women’s inconsistency, 
weakness, and vanity. Are not men occasionally incon- 
sistent, weak, and vain?” 

“Granted again. I am the last person to depreciate 
women. Pray don’t think I meant to do so in saying that 
women are always on the side of war. ’ ’ 

“There is one war in which I should like to see every 
woman engaged,” said Vivien, in a low voice. “The 
war of good against evil.” 

“Hear, hear, Vivien,” said Lady Villebois, clapping 
her hands. “There, Mr. Ormerod, is a reproof for you. 
Miss Lowry has been listening to our foolish talk, and, I 
have no doubt, has criticised us pretty severely.” 

“Indeed, no!” said Vivien, eagerly. “I quite agree 
with you, Lady Villebois, in thinking that great wealth 
is an evil. I think, if you had seen as much of poverty 
as I have, Mr. Ormerod, you would think as we do.” 

She looked so beautiful, with that eager light in her 
eyes, that Ormerod felt it would not need a very power- 
ful argument to induce him to alter any opinion he held. 

Though, until then, Vivien had not joined in the con- 
versation, the changing expression of her face told that 
she was listening attentively ; and Ormerod thought her 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


123 


silence was a great deal more eloquent than most people’s 
speech. 

“If I seem to argue on the side of wealth, Miss Low- 
ry,” he said, gravely, “it is not because I am a rich 
man, or because my sympathies lie with the rich. I 
grieve as sincerely as any one over the cruel poverty that 
is the lot of so many ; but how that poverty is to be allevi- 
ated without degrading the people to pauperism I cannot 
see. It is a question that has puzzled wiser heads than 
mine.” 

“And than mine and yours, Vivien,” added Lady Vil- 
lebois, laughing. “There, dear child, is a nice little im- 
plied reproof for us, so we won’t venture to say any more, 
lest Mr. Ormerod should think — though, of course, he 
would be too polite to give the thought utterance — that 
‘ fools rush in where angels fear to tread. ’ No more po- 
litical economy — it is strong meat for babes. Change the 
subject. Let us return to the frivolous topics proper to our 
sex. Now, Mr. Ormerod, pray amuse us, since we may 
not be instructed ; tell us the very last delicious piece of 
scandal — love of scandal is supposed to be a purely femi- 
nine taste, like tea, though I have heard it whispered 
that a good deal of both commodities is circulated in 
clubs ; but I daresay that, too, is only scandal.” 

“I am afraid not,” said Felix, laughing. “I think love 
of gossip, to say nothing of scandal, was introduced into 
club-land with the tea-pot; there is, I am inclined to 
think, an elective affinity between the two.” 

“By that token, Vivien, it is tea-time,” said her lady- 
ship, as Wilson entered with the tea-equipage. “Now, 
Mr. Ormerod, let us leave no doubt about ‘the elective 
affinity’ of which you speak. Now for tea and scandal !” 


124 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


CHAPTER X. 

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

A week after Ormerod called at Rollestone House, he 
went down to Grasshire for a couple of days. Sjybil was 
unaffectedly glad to see him ; she welcomed him with 
her brightest smile and most charming blush. The period 
of her lover’s absence had not been one of unmixed hap- 
piness to her. Mrs. Le Marchant’s nerves had been par- 
ticularly weak of late, demanding the utmost tact and 
patience on the part of those about her. 

Le Marchant, who looked gloomier and more forbid- 
ding than ever, received his future son-in-law with the 
same formal courtesy he had shown him on his first visit 
to the Towers ; and Ormerod felt that, to all .intents and 
purposes, he was as little acquainted with the true char- 
acter of his host as he was then. Le Marchant puzzled 
him more than ever ; he looked a trifle worn and har- 
assed, as if life’s cares weighed heavily upon him, and 
Ormerod noticed with wonder that he often seemed ner- 
vous and uneasy ; there was, too, a suppressed excitement 
in his manner at times which was strangely at variance 
with his usual impassiveness. 

“I wonder if he has been going in for money specula- 
tions,” thought Felix, as he watched Le Marchant cu- 
riously on the evening-of his arrival at the Towers; “he 
looks gnawed with anxiety, and financial worries are 
generally at the root of the secret cares of men of his 
caliber. That unsettled look of the eye tells me that my 
respected father-in-law-to-be has something on his mind, 
and I am inclined to think that that ‘ something’ is inse- 
cure securities. ’ ’ 

With this idea in his head, Ormerod tried to turn the 
conversation to financial topics, in the hope that Le Mar- 
chant would confide his anxieties, whatever they were, 
to him. But Le Marchant seemed indisposed for any con- 
fidences, and met the other’s advances with a cold indiffer- 
ence that was as insuperable as a barrier of ice, and soon 


I.IKE LUCIFER. 


125 


proposed that they should join the ladies in the drawing- 
room. 

It was a hot, sultry night, and, though the long French 
windows stood open, not a breath of air moved the cur- 
tains, not a leaf stirred outside. 

Mrs. Le Marchant was reclining in a graceful attitude 
on a sofa with a large feather fan in her hand. A pink- 
shaded lamp stood on a table near her, and cast a becom- 
ing flush on her faded face. Ormerod did not feel in the 
humor for a tete-a-tete with his hostess, and he glanced 
round the room in search of his betrothed. 

“Sybil is on the terrace,” murmured Mrs. Le Marchant, 
querulously. “I warned her that she risked taking cold 
by exposing herself to the night air, but she wouldn’t 
listen to me.” 

Ormerod made no reply. The implied reproach at the 
absent Sybil’s lack of obedience made him smile, and yet 
it vexed him. He could not understand why Mrs. Le 
Marchant took such pleasure in finding fault with her 
daughter. The want of maternal affection she displayed 
made him feel a chivalrous sort of pity for Sybil which 
gave an added warmth to his manner when he joined 
her on the terrace. 

He drew her hand through his arm as they paced slow- 
ly up and down. The light from the open windows 
showed him the look of quiet happiness in her eyes, and 
it seemed to him that she looked prettier than ever with 
that look of sweet seriousness on her face — a seriousness 
which comes to the youngest girl when she loves, or fan- 
cies she loves, truly. 

A half-remorseful consciousness was upon him that 
during the past fortnight — in short, since he had first 
seen Vivien Lowry — he had not thought as much about 
Sybil as he ought to have done, that he had somehow 
been guilty of disloyalty in comparing her to her disad- 
vantage with another woman. As Sybil’s soft brown 
eyes were lifted to his with the tender adoration he had 
once — nay, that he still thought so delightful, he told 
himself that he was unworthy of this gentle girl’s love. 
Was she not as pretty, as feminine, as winning as she 


126 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


was a few weeks ago? Then why should he ask for any- 
thing more ? He hated strong-minded women, and, what- 
ever Sybil was, she was not strong-minded. Yes, she was 
charming ; she was his ideal of feminine perfection, and 
he was the happiest of men. 

His mind was so full of these thoughts that, though 
Sybil was prattling on to him about all the small events 
that had happened at Dallas Towers during his absence, 
he hardly listened to her, and it was not until she startled 
him by a sudden question that he roused himself to an- 
swer her. 

“Felix,” she said, softly — her voice always had a ten- 
der little intonation when she uttered his name — “did 
you keep your promise? did you go to call on Lady Vil- 
lebois? and did you see Miss Lowry?” 

“Yes,” answered Ormerod, slowly, “to each of your 
questions. I went to call on Lady Villebois, and I saw 
Miss Lowry.” 

“And what is she like?” asked the girl, breathlessly. 
“Describe her to me, Felix. Oh ! you don’t know how 
of ten I have thought of her. ” 

“Miss Lowry is extremely handsome — beautiful, 
rather.” 

“But thatjs not enough. Handsome— beautiful— two 
words only. I want you to tell me what she is like, the 
color of her eyes and hair— whether she is tall or short— 
everything.” 

“I am not a good hand at verbal portrait-painting,” 
said Ormerod, smiling at her eagerness; “but, since you 
command it, I will do my best. Miss Lowry is tall, not 
very slight, but graceful and yet dignified. Her hair is 
golden, and her eyes are dark-gray, with long lashes that 
make them look darker still. Her features are regular, 
and her complexion is everything it should be.” 

“And is she nice?” asked Sybil, with dilating eyes; 
“do you think she would let me be her friend when we 
meet?— for I feel sure we shall meet some day.” 

“I think it is extremely probable that you will,” said 
Felix, evasively, “because Lady Villebois and Miss Lowry 
are coming to Grasshire in a few weeks.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


127 


“Really!” cried Sybil, clasping both hands over his 
arm in her excitement. “Oh, how glad I am ! But, Fe- 
lix, you have not answered my question — is she nice?” 

“That you must judge for yourself ; I have only seen 
Miss Lowry twice, so you can hardly expect me to form 
an opinion on the matter yet.” 

Sybil’s face fell; something in his tone chilled her. 

“You speak as if you didn’t like Miss Lowry, Felix,” 
she said, sorrowfully, “don’t you?” 

“I did not say so.” 

“But don’t you like her?” she persisted, fixing her eyes 
on his face. 

“I— I scarcely know; as I told you, I have only seen 
Miss Lowry twice, and — ” 

“But isn’t that enough? I always know whether I like 
or dislike people the first time I see them.” 

Ormerod smiled. Sybil’s pertinacity was embarrassing, 
to say the least of it. How could he answer her? how 
could he describe his own contradictory state of mind in 
regard to Miss Lowry? Sybil would not understand him 
if he did. 

‘‘Then as you, my dear Sybil, are such a wise little wo- 
man,” he said, with a somewhat unsuccessful attempt at 
lightness of manner, “I shall wait until you have seen Miss 
Lowry, and then you can tell me what you think about 
her. I believe that women are generally the best judges 
of women.” 

“And is she really coming to Grasshire— soon?” 

“Certainly, unless Lady Villebois changes her mind.” 

“Isn’t it odd how the idea of Miss Lowry has taken 
possession of my mind?” said Sybil, thoughtfully. 

‘ Ever since you mentioned her name and told me her 
story I have longed to see her. 

' ‘Take care that your idea does not turn out to be 
merely ideal,” said Felix, smiling; “when people imag- 
ine a man or a woman to be very clever, or beautiful, or 
delightful, they are apt to be disappointed in the real in- 
dividual.” 

“I feel sure I shall not be disappointed in Miss Lowry,” 
said Sybil, with conviction; “my only fear is that she 


128 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


will be so superior to poor little me that I shall never dare 
ask hei>to be my friend.” 

“We shall see ; but I think I can promise you that she 
is by no means a formidable or unapproachable individ- 
ual; rather the reverse,” he said, musingly. “I think 
that she is the sort of woman you would call ‘ sympa- 
thetic.’ ” 

“Then that settles it; she is nice !” cried Sybil, glee- 
fully ; “at last I have dragged the truth from you !” 

Ormerod laughed uneasily ; he felt that the subject had 
better not be pursued further, lest he should be drawn 
into making any more admissions regarding Miss Lowry, 
so he hastened to turn the conversation into other chan- 
nels ; and, as Sybil had now settled the matter (that Miss 
Lowry was in reality all that she loved to picture her) to 
her own entire satisfaction, she was ready enough to 
listen to Felix’s account of the last new play seen by him 
on the previous evening. 

Meanwhile, as the lovers paced slowly up and down, a 
pair of keen, red-brown eyes watched them curiously 
from the open window of the dining-room. 

“I have done the best I could for the child,” thought 
Le Marchant as he gazed. “I wanted to assure her fut- 
ure, at least, against all contingencies. Ormerod is a 
tenacious sort of fellow, I should fancy ; not a man to be 
afflicted with quixotic scruples— a sensible fellow, in 
short ; just the man I would choose for Sybil’s husband.” 

And, with another keen glance at the two pacing fig- 
ures, Le Marchant turned away from the window and 
betook himself to his sfudy. He seldom favored, or 
rather troubled, his wife with his company — for Selina 
by no means considered her husband’s society an un- 
mixed blessing. 

To-night as he threw himself listlessly into his deep 
reading-chair, and leaned his head against the cushioned 
back, his.face looked worn and haggard and old. Even 
in the soft lamp-light, deep lines were visible across his 
forehead, and about the corners of his eyes and lips. His 
eyes had the same anxious, eager expression Ormerod 
had noticed earlier in the evening. His dark complexion 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


129 


looked wan and sallow, betokening a loss of the vigorous 
health of former days. The expression of his mouth 
would have told an onlooker of average acuteness that in 
spite of wealth and worldly success he was a bitter and 
a disappointed man. The five years that had elapsed 
since that never-to-be-forgotten January night, when he 
had cruelly taunted and insulted unhappy Tristram Low- 
ry, had brought Le Marchant if not remorse at least re- 
gret. Catherine’s death and her husband’s suicide were 
events so tragic in themselves that they could hardly fail 
to make some impression on his mind and heart. The 
very completeness of his revenge had satisfied — and sati- 
ated him. He no longer felt the thirst for vengeance that 
had tormented him when Catherine avowed her love for 
Lowry, and thus annihilated every passionate and am- 
bitious hope he had cherished so long. But, though he 
felt some compunctious twinges of conscience when he 
thought of the utter ruin he had brought on the woman 
he once loved, he felt no inclination to trace out Cather- 
ine’s child and rescue her from poverty. He let the tide 
of London life sweep her away, without caring whether 
she kept afloat or was overwhelmed, and so forgotten. 
What was it to him whether she lived or died? — a child 
more or less in the world, what did it matter? 

This being Le Marchant ’s state of mind, it may be imag- 
ined that when he heard the name of Vivien Lowry, when 
he heard that she still lived — nay, more, that she had 
found a friend and protectress in Lady Villebois, it 
seemed as if she had risen from the grave ; as if Cather- 
ine’s spirit had watched over the fate of her child ; as if 
Nemesis had at last found him out. He had long looked 
on Vivien as dead. It was still a marvel to him how she, 
a frail and friendless child, had contrived to hold her 
own in life’s hard battle. 

Ever since lie had heard that she lived, he had been 
filled with a haunting dread that she might one day cross 
his path. He had still a vivid recollection of the curi- 
ously disconcerting effect her presence had on him on 
the single occasion he had seen her : he had not forgotten 
the glance of mingled aversion and contempt she had 


130 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


cast on him— strange that? such a mere child should have 
had the power to make him feel ashamed of himself ! 

“It is not probable that we shall ever meet,” he mut- 
tered, as he at length roused himself from his gloomy 
reverie and applied himself to the perusal of the letters 
and newspapers that had arrived by the afternoon post. 

He little knew that Fate, in the person of Lady Ville- 
bois, was about to overthrow all his calculations, and 
that, within a stone’s throw of his window, his daughter 
was busied in entangling still further the complicated 
skein of his life. Had Sybil stood less in awe of her fa- 
ther, had he ever cared to win her confidence, it is more 
than probable that she would have told him some of the 
dreams and fancies she had been indulging in regarding 
Vivien Lowry ; and he would then have heard of Lady 
Villebois’ approaching visit to Grasshire. 

Le Marchant had been so accustomed to look on Mor- 
daunt’s Rest as a shut-up and deserted abode, that the 
possibility of its mistress taking it into her head to pay 
her neglected property a visit had never entered his. 
Lady Villebois had not lived at Mordaunt’s Rest for forty 
years — it was not likely, he argued, that she would re- 
visit it now. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A DAMSEL ERRANT. 

Ormerod returned to town in a more satisfied frame of 
mind than when he left it. He felt assured of the reality 
of his affection for Sybil, and serenely confident of her 
affection for himself. It had struck him several times of 
late, that he had been overhasty in proposing to a girl of 
whom he knew so little ; that in doing so he had not 
acted best for her happiness, or for his own. But, with 
the sound of Sybil’s loving words in his ear, and the re- 
membrance of her tender glances and sweet smiles fresh 
in his mind, all his doubts vanished. He decided that he 
was indeed the happiest of men ; that those doubts and 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


131 


fears were, and had always been, utterly groundless ; 
that he and SybiLwere the most devoted of lovers, and 
that, in the future, their married life would be entirely 
blessed. Perhaps he told himself this with unnecessary 
iteration — if it were all true. When a man loves with 
the whole strength of his heart, such self-assurances are 
needless. But, as has been already intimated, Ormerod 
was not much given to mental introspection, preferring 
rather to study the workings of other minds than his own. 

Life — now that that stumbling-block of doubt was re- 
moved from his path — seemed to stretch brightly before 
him. He was resolved, since Miss Lowry’s presence dis- 
turbed the serenity and equal balance of his emotions, to 
avoid her in future. That was apparently the simplest 
and wisest plan of action he could pursue. The thought 
that he must infallibly be brought in contact with her 
later in the year, when Lady Villebois paid her proposed 
visit to Mordaunt’s Rest, troubled him somewhat. He 
almost regretted his own share in inducing Lady Ville- 
bois to alter her plans, because the extraordinary interest 
and predetermined affection Sybil felt for the girl whom 
she had exalted to a heroine would certainly cause her 
to seek Miss Lowry’s society. 

A few weeks, nay, a few days ago, Ormerod wished 
the two girls to meet ; now, for some inexplicable rea- 
son, he felt strangely averse to it — a feeling of which he 
felt more than half ashamed, because he coud not ques- 
tion either the goodness of Miss Lowry’s heart or the no- 
bility of her character. 

' ‘Sybil would fall down and worship her at once. Of 
that I am certain,” he thought; c ‘but whether Miss Low- 
ry would reciprocate the feeling is another question. She 
is scarcely the woman for enthusiastic girl friendships, I 
should think ; and, though she is the last person in the 
world to make my poor little Sybil feel her inferiority — 
still — ” 

He did not pursue the thought, because he felt that, in 
admitting his betrothed’s inferiority, he had again been 
guilty of disloyalty to her ; so, like many another per- 
plexed and worried mortal, he took refuge in work as a 


132 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


means of escape from troublesome thoughts. After tus- 
sling with a knotty point in Adam Smith for half an hour 
or so, he warmed to his subject, and for the rest of that 
day remained immersed in the profundities of political 
economy. 

About six o’clock he came to the surface with a slight 
headache, and a longing for air and exercise. With the 
idea that by indulging the latter he would cure the for- 
mer, he seized his hat and set out for a walk across the 
Green Park. 

It was a hot, stifling afternoon, and even that apology 
for Nature was refreshing after the rattle of Piccadilly. 
Suddenly the thought struck him that more air was ob- 
tainable near the river, so he crossed St. James’s Park, 
turned down Birdcage Walk, and so on to the Westmin- 
ster Embankment. There the air was certainly fresher, 
and Ormerod leaned on the parapet and looked down at 
the tawny water in a dreamy and contemplative frame of 
mind. He had nearly a couple of hours to get through 
before dinner-time; a pleasant mental languor, the result 
of the long day of study, stole over him ; he felt disposed 
to loiter away those hours in some spot where he would 
not be likely to meet any one he knew. 

In this mood he crossed Westminster Bridge with a 
vague sort of idea of finding his way to Battersea Park. 
Like most men who spend the greater part of their lives 
in London, he had very little practical knowledge of met- 
ropolitan geography beyond the limits of the West End. 
Of that vast city which lies on the Surrey side of the river 
he knew little or nothing. After half an hour’s walking 
he found himself in a bewildering labyrinth of small, 
narrow, dirty streets in a locality which he rightly 
guessed to be Lambeth— a region to which he had cer- 
tainly never penetrated before. 

But, once there, he found his interest aroused. The un- 
sightly tumble-down houses, the wretched-looking 
squalid people were so at variance with the scenes 
among which his own lot lay that he felt almost ashamed 
of his own worldly prosperity. These toil-worn men and 
women were units in the great sum of London life— units 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


'133 


he had been accustomed to look on as so many difficulties 
in the path of the political economist. Was not the 
“why?” of their existence the hardest of all problems to 
be solved, since they seemed only born to suffer, and sin 
— and starve? 

For the first time — was it the germ of the seed sown 
by Vivien weeks ago? — he felt and realized that these 
suffering units were men and women with warm, living, 
human hearts capable of great good as of great evil ; ca- 
pable of rising out of the slough of misery and degrada- 
tion in which they now wallowed, if a helping hand were 
only extended to them before they sank irrevocably. He 
looked about him with eyes from which a veil seemed 
suddenly to have fallen, and saw with vivid clearness the 
depth and width of the chasm which separates the rich 
from the poor. 

“How they must hate us !” he thought, as he glanced 
about at the groups round the foul-smelling public houses, 
at the evil-faced, slatternly women, at the pallid, stunted, 
hollow-eyed children ; “by what is called the ‘accident 
of birth,’ these people are condemned to a life worse than 
that of brutes — what wonder that they become brutish 
when they live in such pig-sties as these !” 

He turned down a blind alley, where the houses, or 
rather hovels, on either side were in such a state of di- 
lapidation and decay as to raise in the mind of the be- 
holder an angry disgust that “such things could be” in a 
civilized country. All thought of his proposed saunter 
to Battersea Park had been forgotten. He was deter- 
mined to explore the whole extent of that region before 
he left it. 

“What a volcano we live on !” he thought. “It speaks 
well for the endurance of these people that, in sheer des- 
peration, they do not rise and break their chains.” 

And this was the practical, hard-headed, and utterly 
unsentimental Felix Ormerod, who a few weeks ago 
would have laughed t<5 scorn such an idea as that which 
had just crossed his mind ! He was already engaged in 
planning how the filthy slums about him could be swept 
away, and how healthy dwellings could be erected in the 


134 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


place of abominations which only by courtesy could be 
termed “houses.” 

So absorbed was he in his calculations that he was per- 
fectly unconscious of the wonder and curiosity such a 
phenomenon as a well-dressed gentleman excited in the 
rough-headed, slatternly women, and that a band of rag- 
ged children had assembled to watch his movements. 
Ormerod’s appearance in their midst puzzled them pro- 
foundly ; he was evidently not the School Board officer, 
the parson, the doctor, or the “taxes.” He looked like 
a “swell” from the West End — a genus the urchins were 
perfectly familiar with in their rightful element, but 
here, in the paternal ally, such a visitant was looked on 
as an intruder, and an unwelcome one to boot. 

“Uli ! uh! let’s pelt ’im, Bill!” muttered a black- 
browed, scowling imp, who for the last five minutes had 
been hovering about the outskirts of the crowd, to a 
rough-headed lad, who seemed to be a sort of leader 
among them. “Shouldn’t I like to see that topper of ’is 
caved in !” 

“So shud I,” responded the other, in a fierce whisper, 
“and I’d loike to tear ’is damned fine coat to tatters !” 

“Then let’s at ’im— I’m game ; there ain’t no Bobby in 
sight; guess they don’t often come down ’ere. Per’aps 
we’ll get ’ is ticker.” 

The big boy’s wolfish eyes gleamed with the prospect 
of such spoil ; he was ready for anything. 

“Come on, boys,” he called to his body-guard, which 
consisted of a dozen or so of the biggest and strongest 
boys, ranging in age from ten to fifteen. The smaller 
urchins formed themselves into a reserve corps, and were 
told off to guard the entrance to the alley, a cul de sac, 
and also to give timely warning in case of a surprise from 
without. 

Ormerod meanwhile, in blissful unconsciousness of the 
gathering storm, was standing before one of the most di- 
lapidated of the houses, lost in calculations how it could 
be improved from off the face of the earth, and how a 
model lodging-house might be erected in its place. It 
was not until Bill and his lieutenant, backed up by the 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


135 


aforesaid body-guard, rushed at him with evidently hos- 
tile intentions that he awoke to the fact that he was in a 
very disagreeable, not to say dangerous, predicament. In 
his then frame of mind an affray of any sort was dis- 
tasteful to him ; he pitied these wretched creatures sin- 
cerely, and the last thing he wished was a collision with 
any of them. Still, when a man is gratuitously assaulted 
by a dozen sturdy young rascals with a very confused idea 
of meum and tuum — for Bill had already made a dash at 
his watch-chain, with the intention of appropriating the 
coveted “ticker”— he feels a righteous wrath flame up in 
him. 

Without pausing to think of consequences, Ormerod, 
with one well-planted blow, sent the acquisitive Bill fly- 
ing. Two or three of the body-guard were dealt with in 
the same summary manner, and then Ormerod paused' 
and looked about him. Notwithstanding his temporary 
advantage, he saw that the situation was certainly not a 
pleasant one. Hoarse cries resounded through the alley 
of “Come on, boys !” Then there was a rush of excited 
tatterdemalions, who swarmed round him gesticulating 
wildly and yelling out such a torrent of menace, abuse 
and oaths that for the moment Ormerod was bewildered 
by the uproar. 

The noise at last attracted the attention of some of the 
inhabitants of the court. Sundry rough heads appeared 
at the broken windows, but no one attempted to inter- 
fere. Such scenes were by no means of rare occurrence 
in that neighborhood. Ormerod felt more annoyed than 
angry at the course of events. He saw the ridiculous side 
of the affair, and yet it might be no laughing matter for 
him. The original number of the assailants had been 
strengthened by the sudden advent of half a dozen other 
lads, who, ever ready for a row, rushed into the thick of 
the fray yelling out their determination to “do for the 
swell.” 

Ormerod, seeing this new danger, shook off half a dozen 
small boys, who were clinging round him tenaciously, 
and had already possessed themselves of his purse, cigar- 
case, and pocket-handkerchief, and contrived to get his 


136 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


back against the wall of the house nearest to him. Hard- 
ly had he succeeded in establishing himself in this strate- 
gic position, when a clear voice rang out above the din, 

“Boys, what are you doing? Fifty of you against one 
man. I am ashamed of you ! ’ ’ 

The words and the tone in which they were uttered 
had a magical effect. The boys retreated with one ac- 
cord, grumbling but abashed. Ormerod looked around 
in astonishment both at the voice — which had, he thought, 
a familiar accent — and at the result. 

Facing him, standing in the doorway of the house op- 
posite, was a woman, a tall, fair-haired woman, plainly 
dressed in a black stuff gown and a neat black bonnet. 
For a moment he could not speak for sheer astonishment. 
Was he dreaming? 

“Miss Lowry !” he said, at length, “you here?” 

In another moment he was at her side, and she had 
given him her hand. 

“And fortunately for you that I am here,” she said, 
smiling, and her color deepening. 

The boys, who had been fairly taken aback by the 
suddenness of her appearance, now swarmed round Or- 
merod again. They were half ashamed of being so easily 
dissuaded from their purpose of robbing and maltreating 
one whom they looked on as their enemy, inasmuch as 
he was well-clad and well-fed, while they were ragged 
and starving. Bill, who had picked himself up unhurt save 
for an incipient black eye, pressed forward eagerly, feel- 
ing that he had a right to return that blow given him by 
Ormerod with interest. Vivien, without a moment’s 
hesitation, stepped forward and laid her hand on his 
shoulder. 

“Will Rudkin,” she said, firmly, “I am not going to let 
you touch this gentleman.” 

' “’E ’it me, ’e did,” grumbled the boy, with a wrathful 
glance at Ormerod. 

“Of course he did— in self-defense,”' she interrupted, 
quietly ; “wouldn’t you hit any one who attacked you un- 
provoked? Boys,” she added, turning to the ragged 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


137 


crowd, “if you wish to have me for a friend still, you 
will go home quietly.” 

The boys looked sullenly at each other and then at 
Vivien. Her eyes met their angry glances fearlessly; 
she even smiled at them— the smile seemed to say, “I 
know you will do what I ask you— to please me,” and its 
influence was even greater than her words. 

Ormerod gazed at her in wonder. Was this the same 
woman he had last seen in Lady Villebois’ drawing- 
room, sitting silent while he talked, and apparently ab- 
sorbed in some feminine trifle of needlework? How had 
she come to this pandemonium, and why? 

“Miss Lowry,” he said, earnestly, “pray let me take 
you away from this place — it is not right for you to be 
here — ladies should never venture into such dens.” 

Vivien smiled gravely. 

“Don’t be alarmed on my account, Mr. Ormerod. I 
know these people well, and they know me — and, I be- 
lieve, trust me. I will go directly,” she added, seeing 
how great his anxiety was on her behalf, “but I must 
speak to these boys first.” 

“Will,” she said, in a low voice to the boy who had 
acted as ringleader, “you must give this gentleman back 
the things you took from him. I can’t call any boy my 
friend who is a thief. Remember that.” 

Ormerod’s property was duly produced, though some- 
what unwillingly, and placed in Vivien’s hand. 

“Is your watch ^safe, Mr. Ormerod?” she asked, in a 
whisper. « 

“Yes.” 

“Now, Will,” she went on, turning again to the„crowd, 
“you, as the ringleader — yes, I know you were the ring- 
leader, because I was watching you all the time from 
your mother’s house,” she added, as Bill muttered a 
sulky denial. “I waited before I interfered, hoping you 
would all come to your senses. Will, you must beg this 
gentleman’s pardon.” 

Will rubbed his injured eye, which was already get- 
ting discolored, and grumbled out that “he would be 
bio wed if he would.” 


138 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“I insist upon it,” said she, firmly. 

“Well, miss, if eez yer young man,” said the boy, with 
a knowing smirk, “I don’t ser much mind, if it’ll make 
yer ’appy.” 

“This gentleman is my friend,” said Vivien, simply, 
though a faint color dyed her pale cheeks, ‘ ‘and I wish 
you to beg his pardon.” 

“Pray don’t press the matter, Miss Lowry,” said Or- 
rrierod, who had heard every word of the above colloquy, 
“I will dispense with the apology.” 

“You need not. Do you know I am a very obstinate 
person, Mr. Ormerod? Will is ready to obey me now.” 

“Beg pardon,” said the boy, sulkily; and he darted off 
to his fellows, who received him with a cheer, and the 
whole troop rushed away shouting and laughing, and 
Vivien and Felix were left alone in the court. 

“Thank you for your friendly aid, Miss Lowry,” he 
said, in a low voice, “though the usual order of things 
has been reversed — to think of you rescuing me from a 
herd of juvenile savages !” 

“Do not think too hardly of them,” she said, purposely 
ignoring all but his last words. “You must make some 
allowance for the force of example — and then look at 
their surroundings — why, they live in a state of savagery. ’ ’ 

“I hope you don’t make a practice of coming among 
them alone,” said he, anxiously, after a few minutes’ si- 
lence, during which they walked to the end of the court 
and turned into a dirty narrow street to the left. 

“Yes; I come here regularly — three times a week,” she 
replied, quietly. 

“Alone?” 

“Yes— why not?” 

She turned her calm, gray eyes on him with an inquir- 
ing glance. 

“But do you not run a great risk—? Are you not lia- 
ble to be attacked, as I was?” 

“Oh, no. They look on me as a friend.” Then, seeing 
his astonishment, she added, “You know, Mr. Ormerod — 
or, perhaps, you don’t know?— that, until I met Lady 
* Villebois, I lived among the poor— I was one of them ; 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


139 


for I worked for my living ; and, though I was able to 
earn more money than most of them — because I happened 
to be rather better educated— I was not so much above 
them as to be looked on in the light of an enemy. Yes,” 
she went on, sadly, “it is too true that here in London 
many of the poor do look on the rich as their natural 
enemies.” 

Ormerod w'as silent. In a way, her words jarred upon 
him, though she spoke of her past life without a trace of 
bitterness or resentment. He could hardly realize, and 
he hated to think, that the graceful, high-bred woman 
at his side had “worked for her living” among working 
people as one of them. 

“But why — forgive me if I seem to speak impertinent- 
ly — why not bury all that? Why not forget the past? 
Nature never intended you for vulgar toil — and — and 
since circumstances have happily combined to remove 
you from so uncongenial a sphere — ” 

“But,” interrupted Vivien, gently, “if I can by my 
presence cheer the lives of these working people — if I 
can give them such help as is in my power to give, is it 
not a duty to come among them?” 

It was not easy to answer her, so he got out of the diffi- 
culty by putting another question. 

“Does Lady Villebois know of these visits?” 

“Yes.” 

“And she approves of them?” 

“Heartily approves of them. I am, moreover, her al- 
moner,” she added, with a ^mile, “and no one could 
have greater pleasure in giving of her abundance than 
Lady Villebois.” 

“I am afraid you are both often victimized by impos- 
tors,” said Ormerod, who had a rooted dislike to what 
he termed “promiscuous charity.” 

“I think experience has given me wisdom to discrimi- 
nate between true and fictitious cases of distress,” she 
answered, quietly. 

“Forgive me,” he said, feeling that he hadaaid a fool- 
ish thing. “Miss Lowry,” he added, fixing his eyes on 
her face, “just now — you gave me the title of friend — 


140 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


please do not withdraw it now. For the future, will you 
let me meet you on the footing, not of a mere acquaint- 
ance, but of a friend?” 

Again a faint blush passed over her cheeks, but her 
eyes met his frankly, and she said, in a calm voice : 

“01i, yes. Why not? I have so many acquaintances 
— and so few friends. This evening’s adventure shall 
inaugurate our friendship, Mr. Ormerod.” 

“That being the case, I am going to claim a friend’s 
privilege, and ask a favor of you.” 

“What is it?” she asked, with smiling eyes. 

“It is that you will not come to Lambeth again — with- 
out me. ’ ’ 

It was a bold request to make, and, though he experi- 
enced some inward trepidation, he felt a good deal of 
curiosity to see how she would take it. Miss Lowry was 
so totally unlike the young ladies he was in the habit of 
meeting that it was impossible to guess whether she would 
be offended and vexed, or merely indifferent. 

“You are very good to feel anxious about me, Mr. Or- 
merod,” she said, looking frankly and gratefully at him ; 
“but I cannot promise to do what you ask. My Lam- 
beth friends have a prior claim on me, and I am afraid 
they would not feel the same trust in me if I were to 
visit them otherwise than alone.” 

Then seeing he looked pained, she added, quickly : 

“But why should you not make friends with these peo- 
ple, too? They would soon learn to trust you. They are 
by no means unapproachable, if you do not make the 
mistake, so many well-meaning people do, of patronizing 
them. ’ ’ 

Ormerod felt somewhat staggered at this suggestion. 
It was one thing to visit these slums as the self-consti- 
tuted protector of a beautiful woman, and another to 
transform himself into a sort of male district-visitor. 
Vivien saw his look of hesitation, and her face fell. 

“You don’t care to do this?” she asked, in a disap- 
pointed tone. 

“I will do anything you wish,” he answered, obeying 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


141 


a sudden impulse. “Anything in the world— if you will 
only let me be your friend— if only — ” 

Then feeling he was making an unutterable fool of 
himself, he paused abruptly, and his eyes, eagerly 
searched Vivien’s face. That emotion of some sort stirred 
her he felt certain, for her lips and eyelids quivered for 
an instant, and her cheeks turned a shade paler, but in a 
moment all trace of it had vanished, and her glance met 
his frankly. 

“I have said we are friends,” she said, gently ; . “is not 
that enough? But,” suddenly glancing up at the lofty 
towers of Westminster — they were then crossing the 
bridge, and the broad river shone like molten gold in the 
evening light — “do you know that it is nearly eight 
o’clock? I must take the first hansom I see and drive 
back to Chiswick. Lady Villebois will think something 
dreadful has happened to me.” 


BOOK THE THIRD. 

THE USURPER. 

There surely lives in man and beast - r 
Something divine to warn them of their foes ; 
And such a sense when first I fronted him 
Said, ‘ ‘Trust him not. ’ ’ —Tennyson. 


CHAPTER I. 

AT MORD AUNT’S REST. 

Mord aunt’s Rest was a queer, rambling old house, 
built in a decidedly “mixed” style of architecture. 

At various periods of its history it had been added to, 
altered, patched up, and renovated according to the tastes 
of its various owners until it presented the quaint min- 
gling of past and present which was its distinguishing 
characteristic— a characteristic not, however, without 
charm. Nothing was easier than for a newcomer to lose 


142 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


him or herself in the network of narrow winding pas- 
sages and out-of-the-way nooks and corners which were 
quite a feature of the house. Doors leading apparently 
nowhere perplexed the unwary ; rooms as small as cup- 
boards, and cupboards as large as rooms, raised in the 
mind of the beholder doubts as to the sanity of the archi- 
tect who had planned them. Yet, in spite of the undeni- 
able inconveniences of the place, Mordaunt’s Rest had a 
liome-like air — a quality not always met with in country 
mansions of far greater pretensions. 

The position of the building gave it the charm of per- 
fect solitude — so completely was it hidden from view by 
the thick foliage of the trees which screened it on all 
sides. In winter or late autumn the place might be 
dreary in its loneliness, but in August, with the trees still 
clad in all their summer bravery, with the wide stretch 
of landscape, visible from the windows, smiling in the 
sunlight, the silence and solitude were delightful. 

One brilliant morning early in the month Mordaunt’s 
Rest suddenly awoke from its long sleep. The windows, 
that for years had been opened only at rare intervals, 
stood open to admit the air and sunshine. There was an 
unusual stir and bustle in and about the house ; carpets 
were taken up and beaten ; furniture, long shrouded in 
brown holland, again stood revealed in its old-fashioned 
glory of damask and satin and velvet. 

In the garden a revolution no less complete was in 
progress. Weeds were grubbed up ; straggling creepers, 
which in their luxuriance of growth had invaded door- 
ways and darkened casements, were clipped and 
trimmed, and nailed neatly against the walls. 

The old couple who had had charge of the house for so 
many years that they regarded it to all intents and pur- 
poses as their own, looked about them in dismay as if 
chaos had come again. A small army of women were 
scrubbing and polishing and dusting indoors, while out- 
side half a dozen men were engaged in doing the mini- 
mum of work in the maximum of time, according to the 
custom of country workmen paid “by the day.’’ 

All this general upheaval was the result of a few hur- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


143 


riedly written lines from Lady Villebois received by the 
venerable pair some days since, in which her ladyship 
announced her intention of visiting Mordaunt’s Rest in 
the course of a few days, and giving order for the gen- 
eral setting-to-rights of the house and grounds. 

Expectation was at its height in the tillage of Foxton 
when it got abroad that the lady of the manor was about 
to visit her long-neglected property. It was hoped that 
good times were coming for the small farmers, for her 
ladyship would no doubt patronize them to the extent of 
purchasing their dairy produce — a grand London lady 
was not likely to “grow” her own eggs and butter— to 
say nothing of mutton and beef ; so the rejoicing extend- 
ed to the butcher, baker, and proprietor of the “general 
shop,” where everything from bacon to postage stamps 
and sealing-wax could be purchased. That Lady Ville- 
bois would get her groceries from that bete noire of the 
trading commimity — the Stores, never for a moment en- 
tered the heads of the people ; they thought too highly of 
her ladyship for that. 

The prospect of additional custom brought quite an 
element of excitement into the drowsy little place — ex- 
citement not unmingled with curiosity, for reports had 
penetrated even to Foxton that her ladyship was one of 
the most popular leaders of society in London, and a very 
great lady indeed. Only the elders of the village could 
remember her as she was fifty years ago when she came 
to Mordaunt’s Rest as a bride, and for this reason the 
elders were for the nonce the most important people in 
the village. Their description of “the Lady” — as she 
was generally called — was listened to with interest, not- 
withstanding that a description which spoke of her as 
the “brightest-eyed, smilingest, pleasantest-spoken young 
lady you ever set eyes on,” was scarcely likely, after an 
interval of half a century, to be still applicable to her. 

The women who had been pressed in as supernumera- 
ries in the work of furniture-polishing, floor-scrubbing, 
etc., that had been in progress at Mordaunt’s Rest a full 
week, brought various scraps of gossip Hack to the vil- 
lage-scraps that gave a piquancy to their afternoon cups 


144 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


of tea just as the choicest scandal does to the daintily- 
sipped orange pekoe of London kettle-drums. From 
these women the good people of Foxton learned that 
“the Lady” was bringing in her train a young woman 
who was born in a sphere of life but little superior to 
their own, but who had had the good fortune to attract 
her ladyship’s attention : that the latter had there and 
then adopted her as a daughter, and, what was more, meant 
to make her her heiress. This last item of news raised in 
the villagers quite a furore of curiosity to see one who, 
by such an extraordinary piece of good luck, had been 
lifted from poverty to wealth. 

Consequently, when Lady Villebois and Vivien drove 
through the village on their way from Compton Magna 
to Mordaunt’s Rest, most of the inhabitants were on the 
alert to catch a glimpse of the two ladies. A feeble cheer 
was raised by a score or so of sunburned young sons of 
the soil, who, with that extraordinary partiality for run- 
ning after any wheeled vehicle which seems inherent 
in the juvenile masculine mind, kept abreast of the 
carriage through the village ; while the women, stand- 
ing at their doorsteps, bobbed deferentially, and fore- 
locks were pulled by such of the male population as the 
exigencies of field labor allowed to return home to tea. 

Tears gathered in Lady Villebois’ soft blue eyes as she 
looked about her to right and left, recognizing the once 
familiar features of the place — the long, narrow, wedge- 
shaped stretch of green, called for some unknown reason 
the Moor, though it was as unlike a moor as anything 
could be ; the group of pine-trees, with their sweet-smell- 
ing, blue-green spines sharply defined against the sum- 
mer sky; the church, gray, ivy-covered, and venerable; 
the churchyard with its lych-gate ; the old oak close by, 
that was naught but a hollow shell, bound with iron to 
keep it standing against autumn gales, with only a few 
sparse, leaf-bearing branches to show that it still felt the 
influence of spring. Lady Villebois remembered it all. 

As one familiar object after another was passed a hun- 
dred memories awoke in her, and a very sad look stole 
over her face. Vivien pressed her friend’s hand without 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


145 


speaking. Having the gift of silent sympathy, which is 
never unwelcome because never obtrusive, she limited 
the expression of her feelings to that, and Lady Villebois 
repaid her with a grateful glance. 

The village was soon left behind, and the carriage 
bowled smoothly along the high-road. Several mile- 
stones were passed before the silence between the two 
women was broken. Vivien still held her friend’s hand, 
but her eyes had plenty of occupation. It was, in fact, 
her first glimpse of the open country, and the expression 
of wonder and delight on her face deepened every mo- 
ment. Every turn of the road was a new revelation of 
beauty. Whenever a gate or gap in the hedge revealed a 
glimpse of the wide stretch of fields and woods, she could 
hardly restrain her delight. 

At last they diverged from the high-road, and turned 
down a deep lane overarched with the spreading branches 
of tall trees, and bordered on either side by thick hedges 
festooned with trails of white convolvulus, and fragrant 
with the delicate sweetness of honeysuckle. Traveler’s 
joy, whose glories of bloom, being past, had “renewed it- 
self in beauty,” fluttered its feathery tufts in the breeze; 
glossy-leaved briony, with plentiful clusters of green 
berries that a few weeks later would tempt children with 
their deceptive redness ; tangles of blackberry-bushes, 
with their faint-hued flowers and rich promise of fruit. It 
was such a picture of luxuriant beauty that a little cry of 
rapture escaped from Vivien’s lips. Lady Villebois, 
turning to her, and catching the infection of her enthu- 
siasm, smiled brightly ; and the cloud of those past bitter 
memories was dispersed by the sunshine of the mother- 
love she felt for the girl by her side. 

“Oh ! how beautiful it is,” exclaimed Vivien, glancing 
round her with beaming eyes. “What glorious space, 
and light, and grennness!” 

“From to-day, I shall see the country through your 
eyes, my dear. Your enthusiasm is so refreshing. If you 
rave over a few green fields and hedges, what would you 
say to the magical distances of the Campagna?” 

“I don’t think I should admire the Campagna more 


146 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


than this,” replied Vivien, naively, “because this is 
home.” 

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there is as much real 
beauty in this one green lane as there is in all that south- 
ern glow and glitter.” 

“How happy I shall be at Mordaunt’s Rest !” said Viv- 
ien, half to herself, after a few minutes’ silence. 

“I hope you will, my dear.” 

Vivien looked at her friend with tears in her eyes. 

“And I owe all my happiness to you.” 

Lady Villebois pressed her hand in silence. Those two 
understood each other so well, that, in moments of great 
emotion, there was little need for speech between them. 

Neither uttered a word until the carriage arrived at the 
lodge-gates of Mordaunt’s Rest. Here another wave of 
memory swept over Lady Villebois, but she battled it 
down; and when, in a few minutes, the house was 
reached, she could look with composure on the gray, 
weather-beaten walls that held so many sad recollections. 

When she had alighted from the carriage, and crossed 
the threshold, she turned and kissed Vivien on the cheek. 

“Welcome to Mordaunt’s Rest,” she said, in a low 
voice. Then she turned to give a kindly greeting to the 
housekeeper. 

In a couple of days, the two ladies felt as much at home 
as if they had lived at Mordaunt’s Rest for years. Vivien 
reveled in the perfect liberty of the life they led. Callers 
not having yet made their appearance, they were, for the 
time, freed from all social duties. While the dew yet 
pearled the grass, Vivien was up and out, drinking in the 
wonderful sweetness and freshness of the morning air. 
She indulged in long walks before Lady Villebois left her 
room, during which she explored the country for miles 
round. This extraordinary activity on the part of a 
town-bred young lady excited much wonder in the 
breasts of the villagers, with many of whom Vivien had 
already made friends. 

In a week she had familiarized herself with most of the 
roads and lanes within a radius of two or three miles, 
and, in her love of exploration for its own sake, she al- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


147 


ready contemplated more extended expeditions. Lady 
Villebois was amused by the accounts Vivien gave her of 
these morning rambles ; she did not disapprove of them, 
but stipulated that Vivien should take one of the dogs 
with her as a protector. A noble, dove-colored mastiff — 
Chevalier by name — was chosen by the latter as her es- 
cort, and thenceforth considered as her especial property ; 
and a cordial affection sprang up between mistress and 
dog. 

Morning after morning the two sallied out together, 
sometimes not returning until midday. The combined 
effects of air and exercise were already manifest in the 
glow of health on Vivien’s usually pale cheeks, and Lady 
Villebois was delighted at the change in her appearance. 

One of these morning rambles was destined to bring 
before her in the most startling manner the memory of 
an incident in her past which neither time nor circum- 
stances had wholly obliterated. For some days she had 
formed a resolution to walk over to Dalthorpe, a village 
that had attracted her notice when driving with Lady 
Villebois because of its picturesque site, and of a certain 
trim and orderly aspect it had. The brief glimpse she 
had had of Dalthorpe charmed her. The cottages were 
so well-built, the gardens so neat, and there was such a 
pleasant air of prosperity about the place. In this re- 
spect it differed widely from some of the neighboring 
hamlets, which, like Foxton, had suffered from the non- 
residence of some of the principal landed proprietors. 

Lady Villebois felt some qualms of conscience when 
she noted the flourishing condition of Dalthorpe. 

“I wonder who owns the property about here,” she 
said thoughtfully to Vivien, as they drove homeward. 

‘ 7 know next to nothing of the county magnates. My 
husband cared little for their society, and, though I be- 
lieve we were duly called on by our neighbors, we were 
not on terms of friendship with any of them.” 

That pretty village had ever since haunted Vivien’s 
imagination, and she longed to visit it again. One bril- 
liant August morning she resolved to carry out her in- 
tention. It was very early when she awoke, and she flat- 


148 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


tered herself she would be able to reach Dalthorpe while 
the first freshness of morning lingered in the air. Dress- 
ing herself quickly, she descended to the hall, where a 
sleepy-looking housemaid was already busy with a broom. 
Here Chevalier joined her — he always slept on a mat in 
the hall — and she was soon on her way down the long, 
winding avenue-which led to the lodge-gates. 

The sun had hardly risen, and the east was glorious 
with color ; a pale, golden radiance covered the sky to 
the zenith ; a light, white mist hung about the distant 
landscape. The air was fresh and sweet, and a cool 
breeze softly stirred the trees, shaking down last night’s 
dew-drops on her head as she passed. The grass by the 
roadside had liquid diamonds on every blade, and the 
dark-green ivy-leaves which clustered thick under the 
hedges shone with moisture. There was no sound but 
the soft stirring of leaves, the chirping of newly-awakened 
birds, and the faint hum of insect life always audible to 
a quick ear. It was a peaceful scene, and the quiet beauty 
of it touched her with an emotion which brought tears to 
her eyes — and yet she was not unhappy. No ; her heart 
was in harmony with Nature, and Nature then wore her 
mildest and serenest aspect. 

She thought of many things "as she walked: of her 
childhood ; of her early sufferings ; of her mother’s death ; 
of her own struggles. But her thoughts soon turned from 
the past ; for youth lives in the present, and dreams only 
of the future. Thoughts of the past are for the old; 
youth is far too eager to turn back, it presses on, on to 
the future, for the future promises so fair. 

Why should youth glance backward,' since what is 
ahead looks so enchanting? 

What Vivien’s dreams of the future were need not be 
set down here. They must have been pleasant, whatever 
they were, for her lips smiled, and her eyes were full of 
soft light. She looked so fair, and young, and happy, so 
full of health and vigor that even the rheumatic old 
hedge-cutters looked up and gave her good-morning as 
she passed. The dog trotted at her heels with a solemn 
dignity, as though he felt the responsibility he incurred 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


149 


when he constituted himself her protector. Is there not 
something very beautiful in a dog’s affection for a fair 
woman? Who will deny that that patient, unselfish ser- 
vice has not something of the chivalrous devotion of a 
knight to his lady? Be that as it may, Chevalier did not 
belie his name. He loved his mistress, and would have 
died in her defense. 

Mile after mile Vivien walked without thought of fa- 
tigue. Her step was light and springing ; her graceful, 
well-developed figure was as supple and strong as that of 
an Italian contadina, because, like hers, it had been al- 
lowed to grow as Nature intended it should without the 
corset-maker’s aid. 

Dalthorpe was more than five miles distant from Mor- 
daunt’s Rest, and by the time Vivien reached the out- 
skirts of the village she felt very hungry. She began to 
consider where she could get some breakfast. A rustic 
inn by the roadside, with wide bow- windows and a flap- 
ping sign, on which a gaudy presentment of George IV. 
in all the majesty of his furred coat and clustering curls 
was depicted with the lavishness of color peculiar to the 
sign-painter’s art, seemed the likeliest place ; and Vivien, 
not being oppressed with that horror of offending the 
proprieties which haunts the minds of most young ladies, 
boldly entered and asked for breakfast. She was shown 
into a neat, old-fashioned parlor looking out into the vil- 
lage street, and in a few minutes tea, bread-and-butter, 
and the freshest of new-laid eggs were placed before her. 

The meal dispatched, she found on looking at her 
watch that it was but eight o’clock. She resolved to 
spend an hour or so in walking about the village. She 
asked for her bill, which was duly presented to her by the 
landlady in person, who, having heard of the advent of 
a very handsome young lady, accompanied by an equally 
handsome dog, was resolved to see and judge for herself 
whether this eccentric damsel was or was not a stranger 
to the neighborhood. Having satisfied herself on this 
point, she felt a pardonable curiosity to know who the 
strange young lady might be ; but Vivien, not perceiving 
the drift of her remarks, answered her questions briefly, 


150 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


and bade the disappointed landlady good-morning with 
so bright a smile that the worthy woman forgave her on 
the spot. 

“What a beautiful young lady ! I never saw her like,” 
she soliloquized, following Vivien’s retreating figure with 
her eyes. “John was right. I never set eyes on any one 
like her. But I should like to know her name, and 
where she comes from. I’ll warrant she’s a lady born ; 
she looks it every inch.” 

Meanwhile Vivien, perfectly unconscious of the curios- 
ity she had excited, pursued her way through the vil- 
lage, looking about her with bright, eager eyes as she 
went. 

She was mentally comparing Dalthorpe with the Lam- 
beth slums, the horrors of which seemed more revolting 
when viewed in the light of her present surroundings. 
Ah ! if she could give those pale-cheeked, hollow-eyed 
children — children without one of the characteristic 
graces of childhood — homes such as these { And then 
she sighed, for she realized her powerlessness to relieve 
the sufferings she pitied. Without money, her sympathy 
could take no practical shape. For the first time in her 
life she sighed for wealth 

She was so busy in planning what she would like to do 
for those Lambeth friends of hers— she always thought of 
them as friends — that she walked on at random with eyes 
cast on the ground, quite oblivious of the fact that she 
had diverged from the highway. At last she roused her- 
self from her reverie and looked about her. She was in 
a winding, narrow road and the village was quite out of 
sight. Her intention had been to make a detour, and so 
find her way back to the road which led to Mordaunt’s 
Rest. But while she had been thinking about the Lam- 
beth people she had forgotten all about herself and her 
whereabouts ; and when she stood still to reconnoiter her 
position she found that she had lost herself in good ear- 
nest. There was nothing for it but to walk on until she 
met some one who could direct her. 

The road in which she found herself was bordered on 
the left by a tall hedge, on the right by a stone wall about 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


151 


six feet high. The hedge was too thick to see through 
and the wall was too high to see over, so she had little 
chance of discovering in which direction Dalthorpe lay. 
By and by she came to a place where two roads met. 
There was no way-post to direct her, and a nearer view 
showed that the road which branched off at right angles 
was only a narrow lane. She paused for a moment in 
doubt. Should she keep straight on, or run the risk of 
following the windings of a lane which probably led no- 
where? After hesitating a little she resolved on adopting 
the first alternative. The high stone wall to her right 
might lead to a dwelling of some sort — a lodge-gate most 
likely, for the wall probably inclosed grounds of* some 
extent. 

She walked on patiently for another quarter of an hour, 
feeling just a little wearied at the monotony of the road. 
At last a narrow opening appeared in the long continuity 
of that solid stone wall — she was beginning to think the 
gray, wearisome line would never end. A stile of for- 
midable height was placed in the opening. She paused, 
leaned her arms on the topmost bar, and gazed curiously 
over into the jealously shut-in domain. 

A narrow pathway wound across what must be a park 
of some extent, for the wide. expanse of turf, broken by 
clumps of noble trees, stretched away as far as her eye 
could reach. The path was probably a short cut to the 
village; it must be meant for public use, or the stile 
would not be there. At any rate she would not be tres- 
passing, and the narrow winding phth looked very invit- 
ing after the dull monotony of the road she had been fol- 
lowing for the last half-hour. 

With Vivien, to decide was to act. In another moment 
she had climbed the stile and was walking rapidly across 
the park. 


152 LIKE LUCIFER. 


CHAPTER II. 

IN THE RETREAT. 

A change had come over the weather since Vivien left 
the inn. Light clouds had stealthily crept up over the 
sky, and the sun was hidden behind a thick vaporous 
haze. The day, which had promised so fairly, threat- 
ened to belie its promise. The heat had become unpleas- 
antly oppressive, for the wind had fallen ; a sullen, omi- 
nous silence brooded over the landscape. Every moment 
the sky grew darker, and a bank of heavy purple clouds 
lay along the horizon. 

Vivien looked anxiously about her, and then up at the 
threatening sky. There was not a sign of any human 
habitation in sight ; she was dressed in a thin summer 
gown ; and she had not even the poor shelter of an um- 
brella. If a thunder-storm came on she would be drenched 
to the skin, unless she ran the risk of taking refuge under 
the trees. It was not a pleasant prospect, and she quick- 
ened her pace in the hope of reaching some place of 
shelter before the storm broke. The dog followed her 
with bent head and drooping taiL; he, too, felt the de- 
pressing influence of the sudden change in the weather. 
Heavy drops of rain now began to fall, and there was a 
distant rumble of thunder from the purple cloud-bank. 

At that moment, she saw to her joy a small stone build- 
ing half hidden behind a group of trees. Another rumble 
of thunder, louder this time, was followed by a vivid 
flash of lightning, and then the rain dashed down in good 
earnest. Vivien quickened her pace to a run, and made 
straight for the welcome shelter. 

The building, a small edifice only one story high, stood 
in a garden of some extent, encircled by a light iron rail- 
ing ; but fortunately the gate which led into this inclosure 
stood open. It was not a moment to stand on ceremony. 
The rain was now descending in torrents, and lightning 
flashes shot from the black clouds in quick succession. 

She passed the gate and ran to the door, which was 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


153 


provided with an ample porch. But the rain dashed in, 
and she soon found this refuge very unsatisfactory. She 
must seek shelter within the building until the storm 
ceased. As neither bell nor knocker was visible, she 
rapped smartly on the stout oak paneling with her 
knuckles. There was no answer ; the building was ap- 
parently uninhabited. Again she paused, hesitating. 
The door had a lock and a stout ring of twisted iron evi- 
dently intended as a handle. A dash of rain against her 
neck and shoulders decided her ; she turned the handle. 
The door opened inward, revealing a small anteroom, 
leading by a curtain-draped arch to a larger apartment 
beyond. A single glance into the interior showed her 
that her surmise was correct : the building was uninhab- 
ited ; and, judging from the dust and cobwebs which cov- 
ered everything, had been so for a considerable time. 
Prompted by a feeling of mingled curiosity and wonder, 
she pushed aside the heavy red curtains which draped 
the arch, and looked in. This inner room was of consid- 
erable size, with two windows ; but so thickly were they 
overgrown with ivy that the daylight they admitted was 
reduced to a minimum. The rain beat furiously against 
the panes, shutting out all view of the outer world. 
Vivien proceeded to examine the room with much 
interest. 

Chevalier had already stretched himself on a moth- 
eaten fur rug spread before the empty hearth, and was 
busily engaged in licking the moisture from his coat. She 
felt glad of the dog’s companionship, for the room had a 
chill, eerie feeling. She patted his head affectionately. 
Chevalier wagged his tail in gratitude for the caress, and 
then resumed his occupation. The room had evidently 
been well furnished at one time, though everything was 
now dropping to pieces from the mingled effects of damp 
and neglect. The handsome Turkey carpet was covered 
with dust, and was moth-eaten in places. An open cot- 
tage-piano stood in one corner, but when Vivien touched 
the yellow keys no sound came. The damp had ruined 
the instrument. An easel, and several paintings in va- 
rious stages of progress, occupied a prominent position 


154 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


near one of the windows, but all were so coated with 
dust that she hesitated to touch any of them. 

The room had evidently been used as a studio at some 
distant time, for there was a litter of brushes and paint- 
tubes on a table by the easel. Curious that it should be 
given over to ruin and decay ! She fell to wondering 
who had last used the neglected room, and why it had 
been allowed to fall into such a state of dilapidation. Per- 
haps it was one of those mysterious buildings which lie 
under a ban as being “haunted.” Had some tragedy 
been enacted within those walls? some dreadful crime 
been committed there? She shuddered as she glanced 
nervously around. Perhaps some visible traces of the 
crime remained — she had read of such things in the old- 
fashioned romances she had devoured in her childhood. 
There might be half-obliterated blood-stains on that dusty 
carpet. Again she asked herself, with a palpitating heart, 
to whom had the room belonged? 

Some books were scattered on one of the tables. The 
rain still dashed furiously against the latticed windows'; 
the thunder pealed, and the lightning flashed at intervals. 
It was evident she must avail herself of her present 
shelter for some time longer, for the storm showed no 
sign of abating. She must shake off her nervous fancies, 
and make the best of the position. The books would serve 
to while away the time. As they, as well as the building 
itself, seemed left open for the benefit of any one who 
chose to inspect them, she took up one of the volumes at 
random, and idly turned the leaves.' It was an early 
edition of some of Tennyson’s poems, and she began to 
read one of the shorter pieces. But, though her eyes 
scanned the page, the sense of what she read did not 
reach her mind. A "curious feeling of prescience stole 
over her. Again she glanced nervously round the room, 
shivering with a vague dread. The book she had been 
trying to read slid from her hand, and fell to the floor. 
She stooped mechanically to pick it up. 

The book had fallen open at the title-page, and her eye 
glanced on an inscription there : 

“To Catherine, from Tristram Lowry.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


155 


A tremor seized her as she read. The book had be- 
longed to her mother ! 

Was she dreaming? She glanced wildly round the 
room, at the piano, at the easel, at the faded furniture, 
the scattered books and paintings. Had this room be- 
longed to her mother? With trembling hands she turned 
over the other books. Many of them bore the initials C. 
D. stamped in the leather ; others had the name of Cath- 
erine Dallas written in full on the fly-leaf. Dallas — yes, 
that was her mother’s maiden name. She remembered 
it now perfectly, and the story of her mother’s early life. 
Was she then now actually within the precincts of her 
grandfather’s property? A thousand bewildering 
thoughts surged through her brain. This room had been 
her mother’s ! 

A vague feeling of terror stole over her. The room in 
the semi-darkness looked phantasmal, dream-like, unreal. 
She put her hand to her head. A dizziness came over 
her ; she staggered, and would have fallen had she not 
grasped the table to steady herself. Faint and sick, she 
dropped into a chair, and covered her face with her 
trembling hands. Her heart was beating wildly, her 
throat felt constricted ; for a moment she was fairly over- 
come. But she was too healthy in body and mind to be 
hysterical. Soon, by a strong effort, she mastered her 
emotion and rose to her feet. 

She was resolved to examine minutely every part of the 
building in the hope of alighting on some relic of the past 
which might throw light on the mystery of that room. 
Obeying this new impulse, and careless of the dust which 
soiled her gloves and dress, she carefully and reveren- 
tially cleansed the unfinished paintings with her hand- 
kerchief. Had not her mother’s hands touched those 
canvases and made them sacred? This room had been 
her mother’s studio — she no logner doubted it. Long for- 
gotten words spoken by that beloved mother seemed 
ringing in her ears. She remembered many little evi- 
dences of former wealth treasured by her until forced by 
grim poverty to part with them. She recalled that mes- 
sage intrusted to her the day before her mother’s death 


156 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


— the message which had never been given ! “Ask my 
father to forgive me for the sake of the love he once bore 
me.” What a pitiful prayer for forgiveness ! Surely it 
would have been granted if — The tears rose to her eyes 
as she thought of it. Ah ! if the message had been given, 
her mother might not have died ; her father would not 
have found a grave in the dark river. . . . Who was an- 
swerable for their deaths? Her grandfather? No — Viv- 
ien was too just to lay the blame there. That pitiful 
prayer for forgiveness had never reached his ears . . . 

At that moment Chevalier sprang up and gave vent to 
a suppressed growl. Footsteps sounded on the gravel 
outside, and Vivien, startled out of her painful reverie 
by the dog’s sudden movement, listened breathlessly. The 
footsteps drew nearer ; some one was evidently approach- 
ing the building — possibly to seek shelter, as she had done, 
for the rain still fell heavily. She rose in some trepida- 
tion. The iron handle of the door was turned by an im- 
patient hand. A rush of cool air and the sound of rain 
beating on the flagged pavement of v the anteroom told 
that some one had entered the building. 


CHAPTER III. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Chevalier broke into a deep-mouthed bark as the red 
curtains, which hung over the arch, were hastily pushed 
aside, and a tall, thin, dark-eyed man stood in the open- 
ing. The dog sprang forward with a bound. Vivien 
quieted him with a touch of her hand on his head and a 
gentle word ; then she turned and faced the newcomer. 

He seemed thunderstruck, and for a moment stood 
staring at her in dead silence. Vivien felt painfully em- 
barrassed by his fixed gaze, and said, timidly : 

“I fear I am intruding here, but the rain drove me to 
seek shelter, and, finding the door unlocked, I ventured 
to enter, and—” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


157 


She had assumed that the thin, dark man had a right 
of proprietorship in the place, and she felt obliged to 
make some excuse for trespassing there. 

“It is of no consequence — pray don’t distress yourself,” 
he interrupted. “I was somewhat startled at finding this 
room occupied, that is all.” 

The words were spoken not unkindly, but at the sound 
of his voice she started and gazed wildly at him. The face 
had aged considerably ; the eyes had lost their keen bright- 
ness, the iron mouth and jaw had lost something of their 
firmness, but she recognized him. His voice had given her 
the clew. It was her mother’s enemy, and she met him 
here — here, in her mother’s* room ! 

The look of repulsion on Vivien’s face, an indefinable 
something in her manner, revealed as if by some magical 
intuition who she was. He remembered how and where 
he had seen her last. He saw in his mind’s eye a pale, 
childish, delicate face looking at him across the years, 
with the expression of dislike, almost a loathing, it had 
worn that cold January night. 

“Good God!” he panted, gazing wildly at her, “who 
are you?” 

“Vivien Lowry.” 

“I knew it — I knew’ it — Catherine’s child!” And he 
muttered in a deeper tone, and so low that the words did 
not reach Vivien’s ear, “And Catherine’s avenger.” 

“You remember me?” he said, after a moment’s si- 
lence, broken only by the heavy drip of the rain— “you 
know my name?” 

“I know you — I forget your name.” 

“I am Bernard Le Marchant — of Dallas Towers,” he 
added, in a tone of half-cynical mockery. 

“Then my grandfather — ” 

“Is dead, and I am his heir.” 

He watched her narrowly as he uttered the latter half 
of the sentence, but he saw no evidence of disappoint- 
ment or baffled ambition on her face. She only looked 
quietly at him, with a touch of scorn in her glance. 

“Then you reaped the reward of your treachery.” 


158 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“My treachery ! A hard word, young lady. I fail to 
see that it is applicable to me. ’ ’ 

“I do not reproach you,” she said, calmly — “I leave 
that to your conscience. But did you not usurp my moth- 
er’s place? Do you not enjoy the wealth that should 
have been hers?” 

“If she chose to disobey her father’s express commands 
in marrying a beggarly — ” 

“Hush!” said Vivien, sternly, “no word against my 
father. ’ ’ 

“Well — you are right, perhaps. De mortuis, etc. But, 
to speak plainly, your mother married against her father’s 
wish, and she reaped the reward of her disobedience.” 

“She repented,” said Vivien, eagerly ; “she begged her 
father to forgive her with her dying breath. Surely, 
surely he would not have refused to pardon her, if — ” 

“If Jhad not interfered?” he suggested. 

She bowed her head. For a moment her voice failed 
her, and then she went on bravely : 

“Her father would surely have listened to her other- 
wise. He must. He could not so. have hardened his 
heart against her. Oh, why— why did you hate her so? 
What had she done to you, that you should be so bitter 
against her that even now— now after her death— you 
speak unkindly of her?” 

Le Marchant’s face darkened. 

“1 loved her.” 

“You loved her?” 

“Yes.” 

“And yet—” 

“And yet I hated her. Don’t you know that the bit- 
terest hate is that which has once fteen love?” 

She looked at him with a new expression in her face- 
one almost of compassion. He looked so haggard, so bit- 
ter, so disfigured by the malignancy that betrayed itself 
in the working of his thin lips. She pitied him. 

“Do not speak so bitterly,” she said, gently; “my 
mother did not willfully wound you. She was so loving, 
so—” 

“I know what you would say,” he interrupted, roughly 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


159 


“I daresay she was angelic to every one else, but she 
spoiled my life. I can’t be expected to sing her praises. 
Come, Miss Lowry,” he added, with an effort, ‘‘we had 
better let bygones be bygones. It is useless to harp on 
that old string. We won’t talk any more of the past, let 
us talk about the present.” 

‘‘What is there to talk about?” she said, indifferently. 

“Then you don’t mean to lay claim to your grandfa- 
ther’s estates?” 

He looked furtively but keenly at her. He was begin- 
ning to recover from the shock given him by her sudden 
appearance in that place — the place of all others which 
was memory-haunted to him. With characteristic astute- 
ness, he was resolved to take the opportunity of finding 
out how the land lay. He wanted to know if she had any 
idea of disputing his title to the property ; if she had any 
definite plans of her own ; whether she suspected him or 
merely disliked him. 

“ 1 ? What claim should I have?” she said, looking 
wonderingly at him. 

There was genuine surprise on her face. He turned 
away with a muttered exclamation which she did not 
catch. 

‘ ‘There is no knowing what ideas people may not take 
into their heads,” he said aloud, with pretended indiffer- 
ence, though his eyes were still riveted anxiously on her 
face; “some people will snatch at any straw.” 

“I have no idea of claiming what is not mine ; and, as 
you have declared yourself the owner of my grandfather’s 
estates — ” 

“You conclude that they are rightfully mine. Your 
judgment is correct, Miss Lowry. The Dallas estates 
were bequeathed to me by my late uncle.” 

Again there was a brief silence between them, during 
which he continued to watch her face narrowly. There 
was a strange, half-mocking smile on his lip as he did so. 

“I am going tcfbeg one of your possessions from you,” 
she said, glancing round the room sadly. “I suppose this 
building and its contents are legally yours?” 

“Yes.” 


160 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Then will you give me this book?” she said, a sudden 
rush of tears dimming her eyes as she held out the little 
Tennyson. “It was my mother’s. See, there is her name 
in it. It was given to her by my father.” 

“And that is all you ask of me?” he said, with another 
of his strange smiles. “Your request is granted, Miss 
Lowry. ’ ’ 

“Thank you.” 

“I would gladly do something more for you, if you 
would allow me,” he said, in a softer voice. Her words 
and her grateful look had touched him. “I am a rich 
man, Miss Lowry — and, in a manner, we are relations— 
distant relations, indeed — but still, of the same blood. 
Will you accept a suitable provision from me?” 

“Do you mean, will I take money from you?’ she said, 
the color flaming into her cheeks. 

“Why not? We are relatives. I would gladly settle 
an annuity upon you— of course, on the condition that 
you promise not to engage in any useless litigation re- 
garding the estates.” 

“I have told you already that I make no such claim.” 
she replied, with some heat. “The proposition you make 
is quite unnecessary. I want for nothing. If I did,” 
she added, proudly, “I hope I am capable of earning my 
own living — it would not be the first time I have done so. ’ ’ 

Le Marchant winced, but her indignation did not deter 
him. 

“But,” he persisted, eagerly, “there is no necessity for 
such a tiling. I am quite ready, nay, I am anxious to 
provide for you — on your signing a deed relinquishing all 
claim to the estates.” he added, cautiously. 

“I repeat, I make no such claim.” 

“But you may do so— a woman often changes her 
mind.” 

“I shall not change mine; and I cannot accept your 
money. Lady Villebois — ” 

“Lady Villebois may tire of her role of lady-protect- 
ress. I have heard she is capricious.” 

“I will risk that.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


161 


“I see you pin your faith to her. Well, if she ever 
fails you, apply to me.” 

‘That I shall never do,” she said, firmly. 

“I am sorry you rebuff my friendly advances. I sin- 
cerely wish you well ; and I would be your friend, if you 
would let me.” 

He spoke eagerly, as if he were really anxious to con- 
ciliate her — as indeed he was. Her appearance in the 
neighborhood was an unforeseen danger, which he was 
anxious to neutralize, if possible, by ingratiating himself 
with her. But Vivien made no reply. She could not yet 
overcome her repugnance to him, in spite of his avowed 
good-will toward herself, and she certainly could not 
bring herself to accept his offered friendship. 

“You are staying with Lady Villebois, in this neigh- 
borhood?” he said, tentatively. 

“Yes; at Mordaunt’s Rest.” 

“We are near neighbors, then; and we shall probably 
meet in society. Will it not be better for us to meet on a 
friendly footing?” 

Again that odd feeling of prescience stole over her. She 
shrank instinctively from the prospect of meeting these 
people, and she resolved to avoid them as much as possi- 
ble. She was silent, and Le Marchant continued : 

“I fail to understand your distrust of me, Miss Lowry. 
The past cannot be undone. Why not do as I say, and 
let bygones be bygones? Come,” he said, holding out his 
hand, with a forced smile, “the rain has stopped and the 
sun is coming out. Will you let me escort you part of 
your way home? — or, better still, ”he added, quickly, “to 
the Towers, where my wife and daughter will be 
charmed to make your acquaintance. You must be tired 
after your long walk— by-the-by, I suppose you walked 
here?— and Mordaunt’s Rest is a good seven miles off.” 

“Is it indeed so far?” she said, purposely ignoring the 
first part of his speech. “Then I must hurry back at 
once. Lady Villebois — ” 

“I will send a messenger over to Mordaunt’s Rest, if 


vou will take luncheon at the Towers. Mrs. Le Mar- 
hant will drive you back later in the afternoon. Come, 


162 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Miss Lowry, don’t refuse, or I shall think you bear mal- 
ice.” 

She still felt reluctant ; but it struck her suddenly that 
if she accepted his invitation she would have less of his 
society than if she were forced to endure his escort for 
any part of that seven miles’ walk, when it would be im- 
possible to get rid of him unless he chose to relieve her of 
his presence. The unconventionality of the proposed 
visit to the Towers troubled her not one whit. If she 
were to be brought in contact with these people, it mat- 
tered nothing to her whether she made their acquaint- 
ance in a formal or informal manner. Le Marchant read 
signs of relenting on her face. 

“Come,” he said, persuasively, “surely you will not 
carry your resentment so far that you refuse to eat of my 
bread and salt?” 

“No,” she answered, simply, “it is not that. But — but 
Dallas Towers was once my mother’s home, and — ” 

“I don’t accept that as a valid excuse. I am sure you 
do not give way to such sentimental fancies — you are too 
sensible by half. It will give me great pleasure to see you 
at the Towers. Why refuse such a very simple request?” 

“Very well; I will grant it, out of gratitude for your 
gift of this book.” 

She took up the little volume of Tennyson with rather 
a sad smile, and moved toward the door. Le Marchant 
followed her in silence, but with an inscrutable smile on 
his dark face. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SYBIL AND VIVIEN. 

And so it was that Vivien Lowry crossed the threshold 
of the home that should have been hers— with the usurper 
at her side. 

She passed through the Gothic hall that had so often 
echoed her mother’s step ; she entered the long, many- 
windowed drawing-room that had once been made 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


163 


brighter by her mother’s presence. She gazed on the no- 
ble avenue, on the wide stretch of park. And all this was 
her mother’s forfeited inheritance — the inheritance she 
had cast away for Tristram Lowry’s sake ! Dead and 
gone Dallases looked down from their tarnished frames 
on their fair-haired young descendant, a stranger in the 
home of her fathers. 

Le Marchant watched her curiously as he led her 
through the various rooms to his wife’s boudoir, a small 
and daintily-furnished apartment at the further end of the 
suite of drawing-rooms. 

Mrs. Le Marchant received her with languid politeness. 
She was too well-bred to show her astonishment at the 
sans facon way in which her husband introduced her as 
“Miss Lowry, a young relation of mine, whom I had the 
good fortune to find trespassing in the park, and whose 
acquaintance you will, I know, be charmed to make.” 

Vivien took the lady’s extended hand with a smile, but 
the calm scrutiny of Selina’s cold gray eyes had a some- 
what disconcerting effect on her, and the polite little 
t speech she had framed was frozen on her lips. But any 
E momentary awkwardness on her part was quickly cov- 
ered by Sybil, who, on hearing her name, had risen from 
, the low seat where she sat idly turning over the leaves of 
a new novel. 

“Are you really Vivien Lowry?” she cried, impulsively. 

“Yes,” answered the other, smiling gravely down on 
| the bright mignonne face raised to hers. 

“Oh, I am so glad to know you. I have longed to see 
you for ages.” 

Vivien looked slightly puzzled. 

“You have heard of me before?” she asked, wonder- 
ingly. 

“Oh! yes, often— from— from a friend of ours,” said 
Sybil, with a blush. 

“You must excuse my daughter, Miss Lowry,” put in 
F Mrs. Le Marchant, icily, “she is so childish and impul- 
sive.” 

“Don’t listen to mamma,” whispered Sybil, pressing her 
new friend’s hand ; “vou will let me love you, won’t you?” 


164 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Vivien felt touched by her earnestness ; she returned the 
pressure of the small fingers, but made no audible reply. 

Le Marchant, who, had a theory of his own that “wom- 
en,” as he expressed it, “were best left to fight out their 
own battles,” had quitted the room ; and the three ladies 
were left to make each other’s acquaintance until the 
luncheon-gong sounded. Selina already looked with 
some disfavor on her guest. Vivien’s extreme beauty was 
alone sufficient to make her objectionable to that lady, 
and Sybil’s warm words of greeting had vexed her 
greatly. She was, besides, quite at a loss to understand 
why her husband wished to be civil to this newly-discov- 
ered relative, who had, so to speak, dropped from the 
skies. She hated mysteries in which she was not initi- 
ated, and she was resolved to keep this handsome Miss 
Lowry at a distance until her social status should be 
definitely settled. 

The story told by Felix Ormerod had not made the same 
impression on her as on Sybil, consequently she did not 
for the moment recall it on hearing Vivien’s name. Her 
husband had spoken of her as a relative — no doubt she 
was only a “poor relation,” and, as such, a person to be 
sedulously snubbed and “kept in her place.” With these 
ideas in her head, Mrs. Le Marchant began a series of 
artful maneuvers to find out all that was to be found out 
about her guest. She motioned Vivien to take a seat by her. 

“Are you a near relative of my husband’s?” she began, 
sweetly. “I don’t remember having heard your name 
before. ” 

Vivien colored sensitively. 

“No,” she said, quietly, “I think I can hardly claim to 
be called a relation. ’ ’ 

“But you are a relation,” interpolated Sybil, eagerly, 
“for I heard papa say so. I am so glad, for I have so few 
relations I care about.” 

Vivien looked gratefully across at the speaker; she 
felt irresistibly drawn to this large-eyed, soft-voiced 
maiden— there was something so winning in her innocent 
enthusiasm, something so lovable in her gentle affection- 
ateness of manner. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


165 


“Thank you, Miss Le Marchant,” she said, simply. 
“I, too, have .few relations — none, indeed, so far as I 
know.” 

“Indeed ! ’ ’ remarked Selina, raising her light eyebrows. 
“How very odd! But of course, dear Miss Lowry, you 
are not speaking seriously.” 

“I am quite serious. No doubt I have relations, but I 
hardly realize their existence because I have never seen 
them.” 

“But,” put in Sybil, smiling, “you have seen me, and I 
mean to claim you as a cousin, whether you like it or 
not.” 

Sybil had listened to her mother’s cool cross-question- 
ing with secret anger, and she longed to carry off her 
new-found friend to her own room upstairs, where they 
could talk confidentially without interruption from Mrs. 
Le Marchant. She drew closer to Vivien and slid her 
hand caressingly into hers. 

“You will let me be your friend, won’t you?” she 
whispered, coaxingly. 

Mrs. Le Marchant frowned. 

“Are you making a long stay in Grasshire, Miss Low- 
ry?” she asked, resuming her interrogation with the quiet 
persistence of one who is resolved to have her own way. 

“I don’t know,” replied Vivien; “it depends entirely 
on Lady Villebois.” 

“Oh, Lady Villebois!” repeated Selina, in astonish- 
ment; “are you staying with her?” 

“I live with her— she is the kindest friend I have.” 

For a moment the elder lady stared stupidly at her, then 
gradually it dawned upon her that this handsome young 
woman must be the protegee of whom Ormerod had 
spoken. 

Here was a new phase in the mystery. She remem- 
bered the whole story now. Ormerod had said that Lady 
Villebois had discovered the girl in a second-hand book- 
shop, and yet Bernard had spoken of her as a relation ! 
Mrs. Le Marchant shuddered ; it was really too dreadful. 

Fortunately at that moment the luncheon-gong sound- 
ed, and she was saved from the necessity of pursuing the 


166 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


con\ r ersation with this plebeian young woman. Luncheon 
passed off without any untoward reference to Vivien’s 
antecedents. Mr. Le Marchant talked to her on ordinary 
topics with more animation than usual. Selina was puz- 
zled by the evident deference with which her taciturn 
and somewhat gloomy husband listened to their guest’s 
remarks. She was resolved to take the first opportunity 
of questioning him on the subject of this “young person’s” 
kinship ; Selina would no longer vouchsafe her the title 
of lady — a bookseller’s assistant, forsooth ! 

Luncheon happily ended, Sybil took possession of Viv- 
ien, and carried her up to her own particular sanctum for 
the confidential talk for which her soul yearned. 

“There!” she said, triumphantly, when she had estab- 
lished Vivien in the most comfortable chair the room 
contained, and settled herself on a footstool at her feet. 
“I have got my wish at last!” she remarked, with a 
sigh of satisfaction. “You can’t think how I have longed 
to have you for my friend, Miss Lowry — may I call you 
Vivien? Miss Lowry sounds so formal,” she added, look- 
ing up shyly, “and Vivien is such a pretty name.” 

“Please do.” 

“Then you must call me Sybil— is that agreed?” 

“Certainly, if you wish it.” 

“Very well, then ; you are Vivien and I am Sybil. No 
stiff Miss Lowry and Miss Le Marchant for the future, 
mind ! Do you know, I have never had a girl-friend. I 
have longed for one so, but none of the girls about here 
are what I call sympathetic. I daresay you think I am a 
very foolish creature to talk like this to you.” 

“Indeed, I don’t. It is very natural that you should 
wish for a friend, though,” she added, smiling, “you 
might find a wiser one than myself. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think so,” asseverated Sybil ; “though we have 
met to-day for the first time, I seem to have known and 
loved you for ever so long— ever since Felix first men- 
tioned you to me,” she added, blushing* and drooping her 
eyes. 

Vivien started slightly. 

“Felix !” she said, in a low voice. “Who is he?” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


167 


“Felix Ormerod,” said Sybil, with that soft, lingering 
intonation a woman’s voice takes when she utters her 
lover’s name, “the — the man to whom I am engaged.” 

A slight shade passed over Vivien’s face, but it had 
gone before Sybil raised her eyes. 

“He has so often talked to me of you,” she went on. 
“That is why, when I heard your name to-dav, and looked 
in your face, I felt quite as if we were old friends. Did 
he ever talk to you of me?” 

Vivien felt her color rise, but she answered, steadily : 

“Mr. Ormerod and I did not meet very often, and — ” 

“Then he never told you how much I longed to know 
you?” interrupted Sybil, in a tone of vexation. 

“No.” 

“Then I think he has been very unkind, and I shall be 
very angry with him when he comes to the Towers again. ” 

“Pray don’t — not on my account, at least,” said Viv- 
ien, hurriedly. 

“Oh, but I shall! I like scolding Felix,” said the 
other, laughing. “But, do you know, Vivien, that you 
have been very remiss — you have never congratulated me 
on my engagement.” 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Le Mar chant — ” 

“Sybil, if you please. I won't be Miss Le Marchant to 
you.” 

“I beg your pardon, Sybil, and I heartily wish you every 
happiness,” said Vivien, earnestly. 

“I was only joking,” laughed the girl, looking up 
roguishly in the other’s face. “I don’t care a pin for 
formal congratulations.” 

“But mine are not formal; they are really sincere. I 
do wish you and Mr. Ormerod to be very happy.” 

“You are a dear!” cried Sybil, impulsively, jumping 
up and kissing her new friend. 

Vivien returned the kiss warmly, and the two girls 
felt that a seal had been set to their friendship. 

“And now,” said Sybil, when she had resumed her for- 
mer position at Vivien’s feet, “I want you to tell me 
what you think of Felix. Isn’t he nice f” she asked, with 
an expressive stress on the adjective. 


168 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“He is very clever,” answered Vivien, evasively. 

“Yes; and very good-looking, and distinguished, too. 
Don’t you think so?” the other went on, anxiously, as if 
she longed to hear a confirmation of her own verdict on 
Felix Ormerod’s perfections. 

“Yes; I suppose he is. ” 

Sybil looked slightly disappointed at this faint acquies- 
cence. Vivien saw the look, and hastened to add : 

“Mr. Ormerod enjoys the good opinion of people far 
more competent to judge him than I am. Lady Ville- 
bois, for instance, thinks most highly of him.” 

“Does she? Then I am sure I should like her !” 

“I am sure you would,” said Vivien, greatly relieved 
at this new turn of the conversation. “When you have 
seen her, you will more than ‘ like’ her. She is the dear- 
est, kindest creature in the world ! ’ ’ 

“You love her?” 

“Indeed, I do. She is the only real friend I have in 
the world.” 

“Oh, Vivien, you have left me out!” cried Sybil, re- 
proachfully. 

“I won’t offend again,” said Vivien, smiling. 

“You don’t care for my friendship.” 

“Indeed— indeed, I do. But Lady Villebois has been 
like a mother to me. I owe everything to her.” 

“Yes,” said Sybil, softly, “Felix told me about it.” 
Then, fearing she had said more than she ought, she col- 
ored painfully and looked distressed. 

“Dear Sybil,” said Vivien, gently, laying her hand on 
the girl’s curly head, “don’t think I am foolishly sensi- 
tive on the score of my early poverty. I am not at all 
ashamed of the position I occupied before I met Lady 
Villebois. I do not feel that the mere fact of my having 
been compelled to earn my living, when you were yet in 
the nursery, renders me an unfit companion for you now. ” 

“No, indeed,” cried Sybil, indignantly, “you cannot 
think that I ever dreamed of such a thing ! Unfit! Why, 
I feel every moment how much cleverer and better and 
more beautiful you are than I ! Why,” she added, glanc- 
ing at a long strip of looking-glass let into the wall oppo- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


169 


site, “just look what an insignificant little nobody I ap- 
pear by you !” 

The mirror reflected a picture that was charming if 
only as an exemplification of the beauty of contrast. 
Vivien's fair and stately loveliness, though of a far higher 
and grander type than Sybil’s rosy prettiness, lacked the 
piquant charm of coquetry which the latter possessed in 
such perfection. 

“Ah, Sybil, you are a little coquette, and a little flat- 
terer, too,” said Vivien, smiling, as her eyes followed 
Sybil’s and rested on the mirror. 

“Indeed, I am not,” said the girl, pouting in a manner 
that would have been simply distracting to a male looker- 
on. “I do think you are the most beautiful girl I have 
ever seen. Mr. Ormerod told me how handsome you 
were, but I did not expect to see any one so — so — ” 

She paused, at a loss for a word strong enough to ex- 
press her admiration. Vivien blushed slightly, and then 
laughed lightly, as the best means of covering her con- 
fusion. 

“No compliments, Sybil, if we are to be really friends,” 
she said, patting the dimpled hand which rested on -her 
knee; “but now, ought we not to go downstairs? Mrs. 
Le Marchant will think me quite a Goth if I am so shock- 
ingly neglectful of one of the elementary canons of good 
taste: politeness toward one’s hostess. ” 

Sybil laughed, and made a little saucy grimace. 

“Oh ! my dear child, when you know mamma better 
you will find that the companionship of her fan, her eye- 
glass and her scent-bottle is quite sufficient for her hap- 
piness.” 

It was a bitter speech for so young a girl, and Vivien 
saw with pain that it was uttered not in jest, but in sober 
earnestness. 

“I am sorry to hear you speak like that of your moth- 
er,” she said, in a tone of gentle reproof. “Oh! Sybil,” 
she went on, the tears rising to her eyes, “you can never 
realize how sweet a mother’s love is until you lose it.” 

“A mother’s love!” echoed Sybil, sadly. “I hardly 
know what it is — and yet I have tried to make my moth- 


170 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


er love me — ever so little ; and I have tried hard to be a 
dutiful daughter ; but, oh ! if she were not so cold and 
so worldly — ” 

“Hush, hnsh, dear,” murmured Vivien, lightly laying 
her hand on the other’s lips. “She is your mother, remem- 
ber. Don’t speak words you may live to repent bitterly.” 

“Very well, then, I won’t. I will leave you to form 
your own opinion of mamma’s character,” said Sybil, 
linking her hand in Vivien’s arm as the latter rose, and 
moved toward the door. “We will go down to the draw- 
ing-room now, if you like, though I don’t see why you 
should be in such a hurry to get away from me. I mean 
you to be my friend ; and when you come to the Towers 
I shall monopolize you completely — so there I” 


CHAPTER V. 

REFLECTIONS. 

It ' was not until late that night, when Vivien was back 
at Mordaunt’s Rest, and in the privacy of her own room, 
that she was able to think quietly over the strange events 
of the day. Incident had followed incident, emotion had 
succeeded emotion so rapidly that she had not been able 
to analyze her feelings, or to realize the extraordinary 
disclosures that had been the result of her meeting with 
Le Marchant. The discovery of the mysterious enemy 
who had long haunted her imagination, and the elucida- 
tion of much that had perplexed her regarding the mo- 
tive of his conduct toward her parents were events of so 
much importance as to give her active mind plenty of 
food for thought. 

But, when to these were added others which bore more 
directly on her own fate, Vivien felt fairly bewildered. 
Le Marchant’s evident wish to conciliate her puzzled her 
considerably ; his carefully assumed cordiality impressed 
her with a vague feeling of distrust and dislike. Slie 
could not reconcile his present behavior with his past 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


m 


conduct. The scene of her father’s humiliation had never 
been forgotten by her ; the cruel smile on Le Marchant’s 
lips as he taunted and insulted one whom the world had 
treated so hardly was still vividly remembered. How 
could a man who had thus looked and spoken be sincere 
in the friendliness he assumed toward herself? 

She felt uneasy, almost unhappy, as she thought of 
these things. Perhaps she was unjust ; perhaps this man 
was genuinely sorry for the misery he had caused ; per- 
haps he really wished to atone, by kindness, to the child 
for the injury he had done the mother. It was a difficult 
matter to decide, and Vivien resolved to confide the 
whole affair to Lady Villebois, whose keener brain and 
greater knowledge of the world were more fitted to cope 
with the difficulties of the case. She had had, as yet, no 
opportunity of seeking her friend’s counsel, having only 
returned from Dallas Towers in time to dress for dinner. 
While that meal was in progress, Vivien had confined 
herself to a simple narration of her adventures. Lady 
Villebois seemed amused at the relation, and laughingly 
bade her curtail her rambles for the future, remarking 
that she should have been frightened to death by her long 
absence had not Mr. Le Marchant considerately sent a 
messenger to apprise her of her erratic young friend’s 
whereabouts. 

On the plea of fatigue, Vivien had retired early to her 
own room, but the thoughts which crowded her brain 
precluded the possibility of sleep for some hours to come ; 
so she extinguished her candle, wrapped herself in her 
dressing-gown and sat down at the open window. Lean- 
ing both arms on the sill, she looked out at the wide 
stretch of landscape visible from the window, while the 
cool night wind fanned her throbbing forehead. The full 
moon sailed high in a sky of blue-black, cloudless seren- 
ity ; the morning’s storm had cleared the air, and the 
rain had freshened every leaf and blossom of the climb- 
ing roses which clustered thick about the window, bring- 
ing out their most delicate fragrance. A light breeze 
whispered stories of its rambles to the fir-trees which 
grew near. The moonlight shone on the distant windings 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


172 

of a small river which wound like a silver ribbon across 
the clear obscure of night-shrouded landscape. 

It was a peaceful scene, and its still beauty quieted the 
agitation of Vivien’s mind ; the fresh wind stirred her 
hair and kissed her cheek ; then passed on to whisper its 
stories to other trees, and to bear messages of comfort to 
other watchers. As she looked out at the quiet night, the 
troubled thoughts, the perplexities, the vague anxiety 
about the future which had oppressed her all the even- 
ing, gave place to a calm acquiescence in what seemed at 
present inevitable : constant intercourse on a footing of 
seeming friendship with the man of all others whom in- 
stinct told her was her enemy in spite of all his profes- 
sions of good-will. The demonstrative affection Sybil had 
displayed toward her was the one bright spot in the pros- 
pect. She smiled as she recalled the girl’s clinging caress 
at parting, and the words which had accompanied it. 

“What a tender-hearted, loving, and lovable creature 
she is, ” mused Vivien. “No wonder he loves her.” 

A little wistful sigh escaped her ; the wind caught it, 
and carried it away t 0 mingle with other sighs — some 
happy, some anguish-bom, some breathed forth from a 
heart full to overflowing of joy, some wrung out by bit- 
ter, hopeless despair. Why Vivien sighed it would be 
difficult to say ; she did not know herself, she was only 
conscious of a vague yearning after something unknown, 
something as dim and undefined as the shadowy scene 
on which her' eyes rested. 

Sybil’s confidence had surprised and at the same time 
pained her ; she felt that Ormerod’s reticence on the sub- 
ject of his engagement was hardly consistent with that 
friendship for herself which he had claimed so earnestly 
on the day of their meeting in Lambeth. His visits to 
Rollestone House since then, though few in number, had 
been those of a friend rather than of a mere acquaintance. 
He had talked with her about many things : of his own 
ambitious aspirations, of his future prospects, of his opin- 
ions on many subjects of interest to them both. His 
knowledge of her visits to the scene of her early strug- 
gles had been a sort of bond of union between them. Or- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


173 


% 


merod had asked her advice about many things concern- 
ing the welfare of the poorer classes — a subject in which 
his interest had intensified since his adventure among the 
juvenile roughs of Lambeth. He had listened attentively, 
even eagerly, to her beneficent if somewhat visionary 
plans for ameliorating the lot of the toiling, suffering 
millions for whom she felt so warm and generous a sym- 
pathy. Vivien began to hope that the friendship between 
them would result in some practical good. Ormerod’s 
clear, sensible mind seemed exactly calculated to reduce 
her vague dreams to some definite shape. 

She had never contemplated any other relation than 
that of friendship between them, yet she was conscious 
of a feeling of disappointment when she heard of his en- 
gagement to Sybil Le Marchant. She could not think of 
any motive for his reticence, and, though she had no 
claim to his confidence, she felt that he had been want- 
ing in that perfect candor which is the very soul of true 
friendship. Then, too, Sybil’s estimate of her betrothed 
had struck her as a curiously unappreciative one. She 
had expatiated on his good looks, on his distinguished 
bearing, on his charm of voice and manner, but of his 
undoubted mental powers she had said not a word. 

It had a jarring effect on Vivien to hear the man whom 
she had already exalted to the rank of a possible social 
regenerator spoken of in terms which might fitly have 
described nine out of ten men in any average gathering 
in any average London drawing-room. 

“Poor little girl, I am very unjust to her,” soliloquized 
Vivien, smiling to herself, as she recalled Sybil’s pretty, 
roguish face, her soft, shy eyes, her graceful, kitten-like 
movements. “She loves him, I think. I hope he will 
make her happy ; she is too tender a flower to stand any 
of life’s storms— she needs love and happiness just as 
flowers need sun and air. The cold, nipping wind of 
early sorrow or adversity would blight all the sweetness 
of the blossom before it could unfold in full beauty. I 
feel toward her much as I might had she been my sister 
—a protecting, half-maternal love, for she is little more 
than a child, in spite of her eighteen years. How prettily 


174 


LT&E LUCIFER. 


* 


she boasted that she was but a year my junior, when she 
asked my age in that frank, innocent way of hers ! I 
wonder if she has ever heard my mother’s story. I won- 
der if she knows anything of that dark blot in her father’s 
life. I wonder — but no; how should she? Any reports 
that may have been circulated about her father’s conduct 
toward my mother would not be likely to reach her ears. 
The absent are soon forgotten ; no doubt my mother’s 
name is as little remembered at Dalthorpe as last year’s 
leaves.” 

There was no bitterness in Vivien’s heart as she thought 
these thoughts, only a tinge of that quiet sadness which 
becomes a mental habit when sorrows come too early. 
Her character had been molded by circumstances, and 
her naturally fervid temperament had insensibly acquired, 
save in moments of enthusiasm or of intense emotion, a 
grave thoughtfulness unusual in a girl of her age. 

During the past few months the warm influences of 
Lady Villebois’ motherly affection had dispelled much of 
the melancholy which too often enveloped her, hiding her 
brighter and better nature, as mist does an autumn land- 
scape; but the events of that day had a wakened old 
memories of bitterness and gloom, and her heart ached 
with the old, yearning pain as she thought of her mother 
and her mother’s wrongs. Tears sprang to her eyes as 
she turned the leaves of the little Tennyson she had 
begged from the usurper. Here and there in the margin 
were penciled notes in her mother’s handwriting. As 
she read them with the reverence with which any one, 
not naturally deficient in that quality, peruses even com- 
monplace words written by a hand now forever stilled by 
Death, her mother’s voice seemed audible in the sighing 
of the wind as it swept round the house. A vision rose 
before her mind’s eye of that mother— whom she remem- 
bered only as pale, wan, hollow-eyed, prematurely worn 
and aged by sorrow— in all the freshness and beauty of 
early girlhood, bright with love and hope as she must 
have been when those half -effaced, penciled words were 
written. She pictured the dusty, neglected studio, where 
she had that morning stood face to face with her moth- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


175 


er’s evil genius, made bright with a girlish presence. She 
liked to think that the pictures she had looked on, the 
books she had touched, had once had their place in her 
mother’s daily life. 

Dallas Towers, the noble park, the village, the quiet 
country lanes which environed it were already dear to 
Vivien, for they had been the scenes among which her 
mother’s happy girlhood had been spent. She felt a sad, 
dream-like pleasure in the prospect of familiarizing her- 
self with surroundings that must have been so dear to 
both her parents. Perhaps, among the numerous pictures 
which covered the walls of that long gallery through 
which Sybil had led her, there were some painted by her 
father. 

Her father! Vivien sighed deeply as the thought 
crossed her mind. She could not forget that Bernard Le 
Marchant’s cruelty had indirectly been the means of driv- 
ing her unhappy father to his doom. It was a thought full 
of intense bitterness. She felt that all the wrongs her 
mother had suffered, all the sadness and struggle of 
her early youth, and the loss of her inheritance were as 
naught in comparison with this : — that, but for Le 
Marchant’s hard-heartedness, her father would not have 
left the world with the sin of self-murder on his soul. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MRS. LE MARCHANT’S GRIEVANCE. 

Morning brought calmer thoughts, and when Vivien 
had related the occurrences of the previous day to Lady 
Villebois. and listened dutifully to the excellent advice 
she offered, she felt altogether in a serener frame of mind. 
Lady Villebois counseled her to maintain an attitude of 
armed neutrality toward the enemy ; that is, to be friend- 
ly with the master of Dallas Towers, since it would be 
difficult under present circumstances to be otherwise, but 
to be sedulously on her guard against any attempt to 


176 


LISE LUCIFER. 


induce her to sign any formal renunciation of her right 
to her grandfather’s estate. 

“ I cannot understand,” said her ladyship, with that 
quick-witted perception of the weak point in an argu- 
ment which was one of her many mental gifts, “why, if 
his claim to the Dallas estates is quite flawless, he should 
have made that Machiavelian proposal about an annuity. 
The idea that you might contest your grandfather’s will on 
the score of undue influence is so unlikely, that I should 
think a man of his stamp would not care to part with his 
money on such a very remote contingency as that.” 

“I should certainly never dream of contesting my 
grandfather’s will. I told Mr. Le March ant so ; but he 
scarcely seemed to believe me.” 

“I suppose he could not understand such disinterested- 
ness. But I am still at a loss to account for his some- 
what ostentatious display of friendliness. A man of that 
sort seldom acts without a motive. I shall be better able 
to judge when I have seen him with you.” 

So the subject dropped, and she began to talk of that 
other-disclosure which had resulted from Vivien’s visit to 
Dallas Towers— Felix Ormerod’s engagement to Sybil. 

Lady Villebois was at no pains to hide the vexation and 
disapproval she felt. That charming little air-castle of 
hers was shattered at a blow, and she sat, Marius-like, 
among the ruins. Vivien laughed so merrily at her look 
of blank disappointment, that she congratulated herself 
the girl was perfectly heart-whole, so far as Ormerod was 
concerned, and that no mischief had been done as yet by 
her match-making. Still, she felt aggrieved that he should 
have withheld his confidence from her, and she said as 
much to Vivien. 

“The engagement may not yet be given out to the 
world,” the girl said, deprecatingly. “Sybil told me in 
confidence — perhaps I ought not to have repeated it even 
to you.” 

“In confidence! Nonsense, my dear!” retorted her 
ladyship, with unusual asperity. “Why, you were little 
better than a stranger to her !” 

“"£es. But, for all that, I believe she looks on me quite 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


177 


as an old friend. It is curious that she should have made 
up her mind to like me even before we met. ’ ’ 

“It is curious, especially as she knows nothing of the 
strange tie between you. I suppose the days of heredi- 
tary hatreds are over, or — ” 

“Oh! Lady Villebois, don’t finish that sentence,’’ said 
Vivien, quickly. “Poor child, she is not answerable for 
her father’s sins.” 

“The sins of the fathers are visited on the children, 
you know, Vivien.” 

“Oh, that is a cruel, hard Mosaic law. I cannot recog- 
nize it!” cried the other, warmly. “I do not feel one 
spark of resentment against Sybil.” 

“And yet she will inherit, I suppose, all that should 
have been yours?” 

“That is not her fault.” 

“Dear child, you are a sermon to me, hardened world- 
ling that I am,” said Lady Villebois, laying her hand ten- 
derly on Vivien’s. “I fear, in your place, I should not be 
so just or so generous. I won’t say another word on the 
subject, and I will do all I can to make myself agreeable 
to these people when they think proper to call on me, 
though it will go sorely against the grain.” 

Mrs. Le Marchant called that afternoon with Sybil, 
whose pretty face and winning naivete of manner went 
far to neutralize the disagreeable impression made on 
Lady Villebois by Selina’s languid inanity. 

“That woman has something feline in her nature,” she 
remarked to Vivien, when the two ladies had gone. “I 
always dislike people with light eyelashes and cold gray 
eyes.” 

“Mrs. Le Marchant is certainly not a pleasant person,” 
assented Vivien. “Poor Sybil! I don’t wonder she 
yearns for some one to love her and sympathize with 
her ; her mother does not give her a very warm affection. ’ ’ 

“Warm affection from that cold-eyed woman! As 
well expect grapes from thorns, figs from thistles, or any 
other impossible thing.” 

“Then do you wonder that I feel sorry for Sybil? 1 


178 


LIKE LUCIFER. 

don’t think she gets much affection from either of her 
parents . 5 

“My dear Vivien, I see that you are bent on exalting 
that pretty but very commonplace young woman into a 
heroine. I have nothing to say against her elevation to 
that dignity, but don’t expect me to sing her praises. She 
is shallow, frivolous, and, I think, vain.” 

“Oh, Lady Villebois, I never knew you unjust before !” 

“At any rate, we won’t quarrel on the subject, my 
dear ; you keep your opinion, and I will keep mine. But 
I must say I think Felix Ormerod has done the most fool- 
ish thing a man can well do. He hung a millstone round 
his neck on the day he asked that pretty doll to be his wife, 
and some day he will find it out. She will drag him 
down to her level, trample on his best and loftiest feelings, 
and utterly crush any ambitious aspirations he may 
cherish. In her way, she is charming enough now — I am 
ready to acknowledge that ; but picture her fifteen years 
hence ! She will be just a narrow-minded, uninteresting 
nonentity incapable of one intelligent idea on any subject 
whatever. But I won’t vex you by saying more,” she 
said, checking herself as she saw the pained look on Viv- 
ien’s face. “I can see that you already think me a very 
hard-hearted old woman because I don’t surrender my- 
self to the charm of Miss Le Marchant’s pretty face. 
And now let us talk of something else.” 

In a few days Lady Villebois and Vivien drove over to 
Dallas Towers to return Mrs. Le Marchant’s call. They 
found that lady sitting alone, and evidently nursing a 
grievance ; for her thin lips drooped peevishly at the cor- 
ners, her narrow forehead was puckered into a frown, 
and her gray eyes had in them a subdued sparkle of re- 
pressed anger. The cause of her vexation was soon re- 
vealed. In spite of the very slight acquaintanceship be- 
tween the visitors and herself, Selina did not attempt to 
hide the fretful wrath smoldering within her. Vivien 
unwittingly gave her the wished-for opportunity of un- 
bosoming herself by asking after Sybil. 

“My daughter is, I believe, out somewhere in the park 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


1?9 

with Mr. Ormerod, who arrived here yesterday,” she 
said, acidly. 

Both Lady Villebois and Vivien looked surprised. 

“You have not heard, perhaps, of my daughter’s en- 
gagement to Mr. Ormerod?” Selina went on, misunder- 
standing the reason of their surprise. 

“Oh, yes !” said the elder lady, quickly. “Pray accept 
my congratulations. ’ ’ 

“Thank you,” murmured Selina, coldly. “I hope this 
marriage will be for my daughter’s happiness,” she re- 
sumed, in a hope-for-tlie-best-but-fear-the-worst tone 
which implied a doubt whether conjugal happiness would 
be Sybil’s portion ; “but for my part I cannot understand 
the necessity for this indecent haste. ’ ’ 

“I don’t understand,” said Lady Villebois, raising her 
eyebrows ; “is the marriage to come off soon?” 

“Yes: so at least I was informed this morning. Dear 
Lady Villebois,” went on Selina, with the look and air 
of a martyr, “I am sure you will sympathize with my 
feelings in this matter. Sybil is my only child, and I 
naturally looked forward to introducing her into society 
next season. My life here is so monotonous — what I 
suffer from sheer ennui you would not believe — and the 
society obtainable in Grasshire is hardly as brilliant as 
that to which I was accustomed before my marriage.” 

Lady Villebois could scarcely repress a smile. She 
happened to know that the society in which the speaker’s 
father (the notoriously impecunious and unscrupulous 
Lord Hardingham) lived was certainly not “monoto- 
nous, ’ ’ but its brilliance was rather the fictitious sparkle 
of a Palais Royal “diamond” than the luster of the gen- 
uine Golcondian gem. 

“You may imagine, therefore,” continued Mrs. Le 
Marchant, in serene unconsciousness of the other’s men- 
tal comment, * ‘that I anticipated with no little pleasure 
spending next season in town. I had even,” she added, 
plaintively, “settled that we should take a house in one 
of the streets leading out of Park Lane ; for I abhor Bel- 
gravia and Tyburnia and Kensingtonia, they are too par - 
venus for my taste. I had made up my mind that Sybil’s 


180 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


first season should be a brilliant one, though as an ‘ en- 
gaged’ debutante she would have lost the principal in- 
centive to achieving a real success. Still I hoped her first 
season would lay the foundation to the social position I 
trust she will enjoy as a married woman. You see, dear 
Lady Villebois, I speak frankly to you. I am ambitious 
for my child — surely it is a pardonable weakness in a 
mother. But Mr. Ormerod and my husband,” she re- 
sumed, with a new access of peevish vexation, “have 
thought proper to upset all my plans. Imagine, I had 
even arranged with Madame Maude — whose taste is irre- 
proachable, that every one must admit — for a series of 
dresses — ” 

“For your daughter?” .put in Lady Villebois, with a 
dim idea of offering consolation ; “will they not come in 
for her trousseau?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Le Marchant, with some asperity, “for 
myself. A debutante's gowns can hardly be too simple. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, of course,” assented the other, brushing her 
lips with her handkerchief to hide the smile on them. 
“But when is the wedding to be?” 

“In October: positively in less than two months! I 
feel that I cannot do myself justice if I am allowed only 
two months to provide my daughter’s trousseau. Do you 
wonder that I am upset and annoyed by this extraordi- 
nary and, I must repeat, indecent haste?” 

“No doubt Mr. Ormerod is anxious to secure his bride,” 
said Lady Villebois, with a touch of irony too fine to pen- 
etrate the armor of Mrs. Le Marchant ’s obtuse self-com- 
placency. 

“All, yes, of course,” she said, crossly. “Men are so 
dreadfully/ inconsiderate. My husband, for instance, 
seems delighted at the whole affair.” 

Lady Villebois glanced meaningly at Vivien, who sat 
calm, pale, and quiet— a silent but attentive listener to 
the conversation. The glance said, “Has he any reason 
for hastening this marriage?” The girl understood it, 
but her eyes were instantly averted, so that Lady Ville- 
bois could read in them no answer to her mute question. 

“Miss Le Marchant being an heiress,” she said, aloud, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


181 


turning again to Selina, “no doubt her father is anxious 
to see her suitably and speedily married. Mr. Ormerod is 
quite an unexceptional parti. He is extremely clever, 
and one of the most rising young men of the day.” 

“So I have heard. But, dear Lady Villebois, pray don’t 
think for a moment that I object to Mr. Ormerod as a 
husband for my daughter. Only I think this unnecessary 
haste is altogether most vexatious and inconvenient.” 

The words had hardly left the speaker’s lips when the 
door opened, and Sybil and Ormerod entered. She was 
flushed, eager, and excited; he, pale and composed, but 
with the look of a man who has lately passed through an 
ordeal of some sort. 

When the usual greetings had been exchanged, Vivien 
ventured to steal a look at his face. His eyes had dark 
circles round them; his lips were compressed. There 
was an unmistakable expression of trouble, doubt, and 
uneasiness on his face. Sybil, on the contrary, appeared 
in brilliant spirits. She soon drew somewhat apart from 
the rest, seated herself by Vivien’s side, and began a 
lively conversation in whispers, while Ormerod talked to 
the two elder ladies. 

“Vivien, I am so happy!” said Sybil, taking her 
friend’s hand, and squeezing it affectionately. “Has 
mamma told you? I am to be married in October. I 
wish I could get you upstairs. I do so want to talk it all 
over with you. Oh ! it is so nice to have a friend I can 
talk to. Mamma is so unsympathetic — indeed, she has 
been quite cross ever since papa told her about it. Papa 
and Felix settled it all last night in the study.” 

“I hope you will be very happy, Sybil dear,” whispered 
Vivien, smiling rather sadly, and pressing the soft little 
hand in hers. 

“I am sure I shall.” 

Again Vivien’s eyes sought Ormerod ’s face; but it was 
turned from her as he talked, and she could only see it 
in profile. The change in him was but too visible ; Ms 
features were sharpened by suffering. Was he happy, 
too? she thought, with a sudden pang of pity at her heart. 
He did not look so. There was little of the proud, happy 


182 


LIKE LUCIFER, 


lover in his aspect as he composedly discussed the latest 
London news, social and political, with Lady Villebois 
and Mrs. Le Mar chant. Save that brief “How do you 
do, Miss Lowry?” he had addressed no word to her, and, 
when his hand had touched hers for a moment, he had 
evaded meeting her eyes. 

“We are to be married very quietly here at Dalthorpe,” 
went on Sybil, in the same confidential whisper. “Mam- 
ma wanted a grand wedding in London, but papa and 
Felix sided with me. I would much rather be married 
in our own pretty church — don’t you think it would be 
ever so much nicer?” 

“Yes, much,” assented Vivien, absently. She was 
still thinking and wondering about the cause of that 
curious change in Ormerod’s look and manner. 

“You will be my bridesmaid, won’t you?” said Sybil, 
anxiously. “I don't care for any of the girls about 
here, and I don’t want a string of bridesmaids. I only 
want you ; you won’t refuse me, will you?” 

The color flushed suddenly into Vivien’s face, and a 
startled, troubled look came into her eyes. She hesitated. 

“Oh, you must, you really must — promise me you will, ’ ’ 
persisted the other, eagerly. “I shall be so — so hurt if 
you won’t.” 

“Very well, I promise.” 

She spoke reluctantly, but Sybil, having triumphantly 
carried her point, did not pause to consider whether the 
promise was willingly or unwillingly given. 

“Thank you, dear,” she said, with a grateful glance; 
“and now I want to know if you will come and spend a 
week at the Towers.” 

“I should not like to leave Lady Villebois alone, and—” 
stammered Vivien, taken aback by this new demand on 
her friendship. 

“Now you are going to overwhelm me with objections, ’ ’ 
interrupted Sybil, holding up her hand deprecatingly, 
“so I am going to overrule them in anticipation. I shall 
ask Lady Villebois as a special and particular favor to 
spare you to me for just one little week, and I know she 
won’t refuse me.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


183 


At this point, and to Vivien’s intense relief , Lady Ville- 
bois rose to depart, and she was spared any further dis- 
cussion on the subject. Ormerod escorted them to their 
carriage, but, save the mere commonplace phrases of 
every-day social life, no word passed between Vivien and 
him. 


CHAPTER VII. 

LADY VILLEBOIS JUMPS TO A CONCLUSION. 

In the course of a few days, Vivien received a note 
from Mrs. Le Marchant, asking her to spend the week at 
the Towers. The note was Jiapded to her when alone in 
her room, and she hastened down to the library to an- 
swer it there and then. It was so much easier to write a 
refusal to Sybil’s mother than to speak it to Sybil herself. 
To Vivien’s surprise, on entering the library, she found 
Lady Villebois and Mr. Le Marchant engaged in earnest 
conversation. 

“Vivien, my dear, Mr. Le Marchant will positively take 
no refusal. He rode over to deliver Mrs. Le Marchant ’s 
note in person, and he tells me that the note contains an 
invitation to Dallas Towers.’’ 

“I am sure, if Miss Lowry knew how much pleasure 
she would give by paying us a visit, she would not re- 
fuse,” said Le Marchant, shaking hands with Vivien, and 
bending on her a look of intense but subdued eagerness. 

“You really must excuse me,” she murmured, avert- 
ing her eyes. “I could not leave Lady Villebois alone. ” 

“Don’t refuse on my account, my dear, if that is your 
only reason for doing so,” put in that lady, quickly. 

“I would rather not leave you,” replied Vivien, in a 
low tone. Le Marchant’s quick ear caught her answer, 
and he said, turning to Lady Villebois with marked def- 
erence : 

“I am sure it would give Mrs. Le Marchant the great- 
est pleasure to see you at the Towers. Will you let the 
matter remain undecided for the present? , My wife will 
drive over this afternoon to give her invitation in person. ” 


184 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Oh, pray don’t give her that trouble. I am not so 
bound by conventionalities. I shall be happy to spend a 
few days at the Towers. What do you say, Vivien?” 

Vivien was placed in an awkward position. The ground 
had been cut from under her feet, and as Lady Villebois 
had, in a manner, gone over to the enemy, she felt she 
had no excuse to offer. Le Marchant, seeing her hesitate, 
returned to the attack with zest. 

“I have a special message to you from my daughter, 
Miss Lowry, ’ ’ he said, again bending his keen glance on 
Vivien. “She declares that if you refuse she will con- 
sider herself a most cruelly-treated young woman — in 
short, that your presence at the Towers is really essential 
to her happiness. I daresay I have not given the message 
word for word, but that is the substance of it. ’ ’ 

Vivien smiled. 

“Dear Sybil,” she said, softly, “I can’t refuse her.” 

“Then you will come? My embassy is successful.” 
said Le Marchant, eagerly. “Let me see. This is Mon- 
day ; may we expect you and Miss Lowry on Wednes- 
day?” he added, turning again to Lady Villebois, who 
had been watching his every look and word with quiet 
scrutiny. 

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eye with a calm yet pene- 
trating glance. “On Wednesday Vivien and I will be 
at the Towers. ’ ’ 

Le Marchant rose to take his leave with the air of a 
man who has carried a difficult affair to a successful issue. 

“Won’t you stay to luncheon?” said Lady Villebois. 
equably. 

“No, thank you. I made a promise to Sybil that I 
would bring back Miss Lowry’s answer before the lunch- 
eon-gong sounded. ’ ’ 

“Vivien,” said Lady Villebois, when he had departed, 
“that man has some deep motive for all this display of 
friendliness. I purposely accepted his very cavalier in- 
vitation because I mean to watch him closely during out- 
stay at the Towers. Now, don’t reproach me for medi- 
tating a breach of the sacred laws of hospitality,” she 
added, quickly, seeing that Vivien was about to interrupt 


LIXE LUCIFER. 


185 


her; “craft must be met with craft; duplicity with du- 
plicity. There are dozens of wise old saws to justify my 
conduct, ‘all fair in love or war,’ among them. Well, 
unless I’m much mistaken, Mr. Le Marchant means war 
—a guerilla sort of warfare, perhaps— but I mean to fight 
your battles, my dear, and the campaign begins on Wed- 
nesday,” she went on, brightly, “chi vivrd, vedrd. How 
will it end, I wonder? Will it be war to the knife, or 
peace with honor? Vivien, do you believe in presenti- 
ments? I have a strong one — but no, it is no mere pre- 
sentiment, so I won’t give way to superstition. I have 
jumped to a conclusion without establishing premises. I 
have violated every rule of logic, but I am sure that my 
unscientifically-arrived-at conclusion is a true one !” 

“What is it?” asked Vivien, smiling, but without eager- 
ness. 

“That this civil-spoken, crafty-eyed Mr. Le Marchant 
has no real right to the position he now fills as master of 
Dallas Towers.” 

“No right! But he told me that my grandfather left 
him all the estates.” 

“We have only Mr. Le Marchant’s word for that, re- 
member.” 

“But,” persisted Vivien, “how could he have obtained 
possession of the Towers, if he had not been able to prove 
that my grandfather’s property was rightfully his?” 

“Was there any one* to dispute the matter?” retorted 
her ladyship, with some heat. 

“No, but — ” 

“But me no buts, my dear child. I am sure I am on 
the right tack, though I have not the smallest evidence 
to prove my case. Women, though they generally arrive 
at conclusions by unorthodox means, are yet often right 
in the main. In time, I feel confident I shall prove my 
case. Meanwhile I await the course of events, relying as 
ever on my theory that Time brings about its revenges.” 

Vivien was silent. An entirely new train of thought 
had been suggested to her. Lady Villebois’ words had 
reawakened the feelings of dislike and distrust she so 
long felt for Le Marchant— feelings which had been lulled 


186 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


into passivity by his carefully assumed cordiality. It 
was not her nature to think the worst of any human be- 
ing, and, of late, she had begun to look on Le Marchant 
as one who had sinned, indeed, but who having repented 
had, so far as in him lay, striven to atone for his sins. 
She had not forgotten her mother’s sufferings or her fa- 
ther’s miserable fate. So long as sense -and memory re- 
mained, she must remember their wrongs and who had 
inflicted them ; but, she argued, if. Le Marchant had re- 
pented his misdeeds, was she justified in cherishing re- 
sentment against the repentant sinner? 

“Well?” said Lady Villebois, with an inquiring look 
at Vivien’s face, “what do you think about it? You look 
troubled and bewildered by this new idea of mine. ’ ’ 

“I am. I can’t understand why you should think Mr. 
Le Marchant guilty of so great a crime.” 

“A crime — well, yes, I suppose the means he must have 
taken to secure the estates, if my surmise is correct, 
would come under the head of criminal offenses,” mused 
Lady Villebois, passing her thin white hand across her 
forehead. “Vivien,” she added, with a sudden brighten- 
ing of the eye tha't betokened some new turn of thought, 
“one thing I will do. I will write or telegraph to my 
solicitors and request them to send some one to Doctors’ 
Commons.” 

“Why to Doctors’ Commons?” 

“To take an extract from your grandfather’s will. I am 
particularly curious to know when that will was made.” 

Again Vivien was silent. She was accustomed to place 
implicit faith in her friend’s superior wisdom and knowl- 
edge of the world ; she never for a moment doubted her 
intention of doing what was right and just in this mat- 
ter, but she hesitated to join in what seemed to her a plot 
against Le Marchant. Though he was her mother’s en- 
emy, and in a measure hers, he was yet Sybil’s father. 
Ruin to Le Marchant would mean also ruin to the bright- 
faced girl who had treated her as a sister and confided in 
her as a friend. 

“My dear, you need not look so grave,” said Lady 
Villebois, laying her hand kindly on Vivien’s shoulder. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


187 ' 


"I am not asking you to do anything mean or under- 
hand. Surely it is a very natural thing that you should 
have a copy of your grandfather’s will. I respect your 
scruples, but, at the same time, I must say I think them 
quixotic. Remember, if what I have surmised proves 
correct, this man has wickedly and deliberately robbed 
you of your inheritance — ” 

“I will be guided entirely by you,” was the low reply. 
“I dare not rely on my own judgment in this matter.” 

“Very well, then. I take on myself the responsibility 
of getting a copy of the will. If my surmise prove in- 
correct, I shall be the first to hold out the right hand of 
fellowship to Mr. Le Marchant; but, until he stands 
cleared of what I strongly suspect him to be guilty, I 
consider myself at liberty to use my eyes and ears intelli- 
gently during my stay at Dallas Towers.” 

“Does it not seem ungenerous to accept Mr. Le Mar- 
chant’s hospitality for that purpose?” 

“I think not. At any rate, I have resolved to satisfy 
myself on this point : is Bernard Le Marchant the right- 
ful owner of your grandfather’s estates, or is he not? 
When I have decided this question, I will give up my 
role of amateur private detective, and not till then. And 
now,” she said, rising, and seating herself at her escri- 
toire, “I am going to write to my solicitors. A letter will 
be more satisfactory than a telegram, and I daresay I 
shall get the copy of the will by Wednesday. If not, I 
shall leave directions for it to be forwarded to Dallas 
Towers.” 

During the rest of that day, Le Marchant ’s name was 
not mentioned again between them. Vivien awaited the 
result of the inquiries set on foot by Lady Villebois with 
conflicting feelings. She was anxious, restless, unhappy, 
vaguely expectant of some impending event that would 
change the whole current of her future life. 

In spite of all her efforts to reason herself out of what 
she thought a foolish misgiving, she dreaded the coming 
/ visifc to Dallas Towers. Not only did she feel an inex- 
plicable, shrinking reluctance to meet Le Marchant, but, 
though she bravely tried to battle down the feeling as a 


188 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


disloyalty to the gentle girl who had manifested a sisterly 
love toward herself, the prospect of meeting Ormerod in 
his new character of Sybil’s accepted lover filled her 
with a sense of undefined pain. Until the day when her 
own eyes convinced her to the contrary, she honestly be- 
lieved that the engagement had brought as much happi- 
ness to Ormerod as to Sybil. But the look of unmistaka- 
ble suffering she had seen on his face that afternoon con- 
vinced her that such was not the case. 

“And yet,” she argued to herself, “he must love her, 
or why did he ask her to be his wife?” 

Not for a moment did she suppose that Sybil’s heiress- 
ship had had anything to do with the matter. Had any 
one suggested such an idea to her, she would have re- 
pelled the base insinuation as a calumny. Ormerod 
s-eemed to her incapable of so meanly mercenary a mo- 
tive. She felt sure that he would ask no woman to be 
his wife unless he loved her ; therefore, he must love 
Sybil. There must be some other cause for his evident 
unhappiness. Perhaps he would confide it to her ; per- 
haps she might be able to help him. He had called her 
his friend once ; surely she might do him a friend’s ser- 
vice, if the power to do it were hers. 

She reproached herself for entertaining even for a mo- 
ment the thought that his engagement to Sybil was not 
calculated to bring him happiness. Sybil was charmingly 
pretty, stveet-tempered, lovable — what more could a man 
wish in a wife? Of course he loved her; she had been 
unkind, ungenerous, and foolish ever to doubt it. 

And so Vivien continued to blind herself to the true 
state of the case, refusing to listen to the promptings of 
her own heart, crushing down all the bright dreams and 
fancies she had, woman-like, taken pleasure in weaving 
about her own future, and, deliberately renouncing all 
thought of happiness for herself, resolved to live on from 
day to day neither looking back nor forward, but hold- 
ing straight on in the thorny path of right without reck 
of wounded feet or weary heart. 

Lady Villebois, with her usual acuteness, had formed 
a tolerably correct idea of the true solution of an enigma 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


189 


that had puzzled her considerably at first— viz. , why a 
man of Ormerod’s caliber had, as she expressed it, tied'a 
millstone, in the shape of pretty Sybil Le Marchant, 
about his neck at the very outset of his career. It was 
not a flattering comparison, perhaps, to liken that pretty 
creature to a senseless block of stone, but Lady Villebois 
never troubled herself about that. Sybil’s prettiness, her 
naivete, her winning childishness of manner, had no 
charm for her ; she saw only the shallowness of her char- 
acter, the lack of mental and moral stamina apparent in 
her. In a word, Lady Villebois judged Sybil justly, 
while Vivien judged her generously. Just as a rasping 
east wind will be termed “bracing” or “biting,” or a 
summer day “brilliant” or “sweltering,” according to 
the taste or the idiosyncrasy of the individual who ex- 
periences those extremes of climate. 

Perhaps Lady Villebois’ severity was part the result 
of the very real vexation sho felt when she heard of Or- 
merod’s engagement. That visionary air-castle she had 
taken such pleasure in rearing had melted into its native 
elements, leaving no more trace behind it than did Alad- 
din’s palace. Though she had no one to blame but her- 
self for the instability of the foundations on which she 
had reared this aerial edifice, she could not bring herself 
to look on Sybil otherwise than as an interloper and a 
marplot, and the feeling that in doing so she was both 
unjust and unkind had the effect of still further height- 
ening her vexation. 

The new idea she had originated about Le Marchant ’s 
unproved right to the Dallas estates afforded her a vica- 
rious method of venting her dissatisfaction with things in 
general. Her active brain, once set working, found 
plenty of material for the construction of another Span- 
ish castle provided with more practical, if not more re- 
liable, foundations than that which had so recently faded 
away before her “like the baseless fabric of a vision.” 



190 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


BOOK THE FOURTH. 

QUICKSANDS. 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands — Life hath snares ! 

—Longfellow. 


CHAPTER I. 

SYBIL’S KNIGHT OF THE KNAPSACK. 

Wednesday morning dawned bright and fair. Rain 
had fallen ceaselessly all the preceding day, and the air 
had the purity and freshness of May rather than the sul- 
try oppression of August. Vivien, as was her wont, was 
out and about before the breakfast-gong sounded. Like 
most impressionable people, she was much influenced by 
/Weather. The depression and languor she had experi- 
enced the day before, while the rain fell and the clouds 
hung low, passed away as she met the cool morning 
breeze and looked up at the brilliant sky. Her spirits 
rose ; the vague dread with which she had hitherto con- 
templated her visit to Dallas Towers gave place to a feel- 
ing of pleasurable anticipation — for, at nineteen, the sil- 
ver cloud-lining does not long remain hidden. Vivien’s 
face was as bright as the morning when she met Lady 
Villebois at the breakfast-table. That lady, however, 
looked unusually grave ; she held an open letter in hex- 
hand, which she read over several times with a puzzled 
air. » 

Vivien,” she said at last, “I have heard from my so- 
licitoi-s.” 

A shadow fell on Vivien’s face. 

“Yes?” she said, gravely. 

This question of her mother’s lost inhei*itance jarred 
on her present mood. She wanted to forget the past if 
she could ; but it was not to be. 

“They have given me the very information I wanted,” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


191 


pursued Lady Villebois, with subdued eagerness; “your 
grandfather’s will— the will under which Bernard Le 
Marchant succeeded to the Dallas estates— was made as 
far back as December, eighteen hundred and' fifty-eight 
— a few months after your mother’s marriage.” 

“But that proves rather than disproves Mr. Le Mar- 
chant’s right, does it not?” remarked Vivien; “if my 
grandfather bequeathed the property to him, there is an 
end of the matter, surely.” 

“Not at all. My dear child, you are really too simple. 
Does it not strike you that it is more than within the 
range of possibility that your grandfather, moved by a 
feeling of remorse — of justice rather — made a second 
will?” she added, lowering her voice. 

Vivien looked at the speaker in astonishment. 

“A second will !” 

“Yes; why not?” 

“But-” 

“Ah, now for a hundred and fifty arguments against 
my theory !” laughed Lady Villebois. “My dear Vivien, 
I see you are obstinately bent on putting Mr. Le Mar- 
chant in the right.” 

“Not at all. I am anxious only to do what is right.” 

“Very well, then. I will put the matter in another 
light. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that your 
grandfather did make a second will, and did bequeath 
his fortune to your mother, is it right for you to allow his 
wishes to be deliberately set aside by one who has played 
the traitor once — and, if once, why not again and again?” 

Vivien was silent, but there were signs of emotion 
written on her face that her friend did not misread. 

“I know,” pursued Lady Villebois, “that you have no 
selfish craving for wealth; but ask yourself if wealth 
has not grave duties which you ought not to shirk. If 
Mr. Dallas bequeathed to your mother what after all was 
rightfully hers, the Dallas estates are now yours ; and 
you should not shrink from the responsibilities which 
such large possessions naturally bring. Then think how 
you could spend that wealth, think of the misery you 
could alleviate! You have known poverty, you have 


192 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


seen how the poor live, can you not picture the change 
you might make in hundreds of miserable lives, merely 
by a wise exercise of the power wealth gives?” 

There was a momentary flash in Vivien’s eyes, a height- 
ened color in her cheeks. She raised her head and looked 
at her friend with a kindling glance. 

“Ah !” she said, with a long-drawn inspiration. Lady 
Villebois had touched the right chord. The abstract idea 
of wealth had failed to charm her, but the power to help 
the unhappy was a power she had often yearned to pos- 
sess, and now if what Lady Villebois imagined were true, 
if Dallas Towers and its broad acres belonged of right to 
her and not to Bernard Le Marchant, that power was 
hers. Her heart leaped within her as she thought of the 
joy it might be her lot to give those for whom life was 
but a long struggle to keep the wolf from the door. 

Lady Villebois smiled as she noted the sudden change 
her words had wrought. 

• ‘Well, my dear, does wealth look more tempting now? 
Will you let me make further inquiries about this will?” 

“Act as you think best. I leave the matter in your 
hands,” said Vivien, slowly, the color fading from her 
cheeks and the light from her eyes. 

“Then,” said Lady Villebois, with a little air of tri- 
umph, “when breakfast is over I shall write again to my 
solicitors, and instruct them to proceed as I shall direct.” 

“What is the first step to be?” asked the girl, in a low 
voice. 

“To find out all the particulars of the last years of your 
grandfather’s life. ’ ’ 

“It will be a difficult thing to do at this distance of 
time. ’ ’ 

“Distance of time — nonsense! Your grandfather died 
four or five years ago. Why, it is a mere nothing ; a 
clever detective would ferret out events of a far remoter 
date. Just let me manage matters in my own way, and 
I know I shall succeed. This affair, remember, is my affair 
now— since you have given it into my hands. Trust me 
all in all, or not at all. I hate half confidences and half 
measures. ’ ’ 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


193 


“I trust you implicitly,” said Vivien, smiling. 

“Very well; then there is no need for further discus- 
sion. I shall now retire to the library to write my letter, 
and you, my dear, being free from such sordid cares, 
may betake yourself to the garden until the carriage 
comes round. Remember we start at eleven for Dallas 
Towers. ’ ’ 

An hour or two later the two ladies were bowling rap- 
idly along the pleasant country lanes toward Dalthorpe. 
Lady Villebois was in brilliant spirits, talking incessantly, 
as was her wont, but she did not once allude to Vivien’s 
possible heiress-ship. The latter was rather silent and 
absent, only responding by brief monosyllables to her 
friend’s bright sallies. 

As they passed the gates of Dallas Towers and drove up 
the broad avenue, the melancholy that had oppressed 
Vivien of late returned, and she looked about her with 
sad, wistful eyes. She was nearing the home of her 
mother’s girlish days. The grand old trees, the velvet 
turf, the noble fagade of the Towers seemed to be the 
half -remembered scene of a dream-drama, rather than 
palpable realities. The whisper of the breeze as it swept 
through the leaves seemed full of mystery; a curious 
fancy flashed through her mind that her mother’s spirit 
was hovering about, that the soft air which fanned her 
cheek was freighted with a spirit-message ; that words 
inaudible to other ears were borne to her from the dim 
world beyond the grave. With an effort she roused her- 
self, dispersing the dream-like mists, that were closing 
round her, by a vigorous exercise of her reason. Vivien 
rarely gave way to morbid, brooding thoughts, though, 
perhaps owing to the strange, lonely life she had lived in 
her childhood and early youth, they occasionally visited 
her. 

“Here we are!” said Lady Villebois, in her briskest 
tones as the carriage swept up to the entrance. “My 
dear Vivien, I don’t think you have spoken a dozen words 
since we left Mordaunt’s Rest. What have you been 
dreaming about?” 

Vivien made no reply ; her heart was full : the dream- 


194 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


like feeling had gone, but the sadness remained, and she 
felt grateful to Sybil (who was standing at the entrance 
in her garden-hat, looking the embodiment of youth and 
happiness) for the enthusiastic welcome which effectually 
covered any embarrassment she might feel herself. 

“How good of you to come, dear Lady Villebois,” said 
Sybil, in her prettiest manner. “Mamma has one of her 
bad headaches, and is lying down on the sofa in her bou- 
doir, so has deputed me to receive you.” 

Then she kissed both ladies with effusion, and insisted 
on showing them to their rooms herself, hovering about 
them like some bright humming-bird as she did so. 

“Your room is next to mine; I arranged that ” she 
whispered to Vivien. “May I come in while you take off 
your bonnet?” she added, naively, “I have so much to 
tell you and I am so impatient, I can’t wait.” 

Vivien smiled her assent, and Sybil ensconced herself 
in one of the low easy-chairs, with an air of quiet satis- 
faction. 

“There,” she said, with a little sigh of relief fluttering 
from between her rosy lips, “at last I have carried my 
point. You are here — actually here at Dallas Towers for 
a whole week certain, and for as much longer as we can 
persuade you to stay. How nice it is to get your own 
way, don’t you think so?” 

“That depends. ” 

“Oh, I like it always. Do you think Felix will let me 
do just as I like when — when we are married? He does 
now.” 

“Impossible to say,” replied Vivien, turning to the 
glass to smooth her hair. “I am sure he will always be 
kind.” 

“Yes, of course; but I have had my own way so little 
all my life, and I should like to do just as I please when 
I am married.” 

“I don’t want to preach to you, Sybil, but is there not 
something in the marriage service about ‘ loving, honor- 
ing, and obeying ’ your husband?” said Vivien, with a 
grave smile. It was impossible to treat Sybil otherwise 
than as a child. She could not argue with her, but it 


LIKE LUCIFER 


195 


seemed unspeakably sad to know that the woman who 
was to make the happiness or misery of Ormerod’s life 
had no higher thought of marriage than this. 

“I daresay there is,” replied Sybil, lightly. “I don’t 
think I ever read the marriage service through ; they say 
it is unlucky. But.” she resumed, settling her features 
into an expression of gravity, ‘‘I haven’t told you the 
romantic adventure I had the other day. You know my 
horse Etoile Fiiante? On Monday, when Felix had run 
up to town for the day, I took it into my head that a can- 
ter over the Crays-nest Common would while away the 
time, so I ordered Etoile to be saddled, and, with my 
groom Jenkins behind me, off I went. Well, Etoile was 
rather wild, for she doesn’t get half enough to do in sum- 
mer. When I got to the common, I had my canter, but 
Etoile, having, I suppose, enjoyed it as much as I, felt no 
inclination to go home ; at any rate, she took the bit be- 
tween her teeth, and was off again at racing speed, and I 
was as powerless as a child to stop her. ’ ’ 

“But what was Jenkins doing all this time? You are 
really a very imprudent little girl, Sybil.” 

“Not at all,” said Sybil, pouting. “I wanted a canter, 
and I got one. Only it was rather furious toward the 
end. But I don’t regret the affair one bit, because it was 
through Etoile ’s unmanageableness that I had my ro- 
mantic adventure — just like a heroine in a novel. There 
was a hero in the business, too,” she went on, nodding 
her head mysteriously ; ‘ ‘not that he looked much like 
one, though, only he behaved heroically. He caught hold 
of Etoile’s bridle just as she was dashing at a high gate, 
where I feel sure I should have fallen ignominiously, and 
probably have broken my back, or, at least, cut my face, 
and disfigured myself for life, which would have been 
almost as bad. ’ ’ 

“Oh! Sybil, don’t speak so lightly of it. You might 
have been killed I” exclaimed Vivien, turning pale. 

“Of course I might, dear ; that is just the exciting part 
of it. But don’t you want to hear about my hero? Poor 
old Jenkins was plodding along hopelessly in the rear. I 
believe he tried his best to stop Etoile, though his efforts 


196 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


to do so only made matters worse, because she fancied 
she was racing his horse, and was determined not to be 
beaten. So, you see, Jenkins was no use at all, and had 
it not been for my knight of the knapsack — well, I won’t 
say what might have happened, because I can see it 
makes you shiver.” 

“But who was this knight of the knapsack, as you call 
him, and how did he come to your aid?” 

“It all happened in the orthodox fashion, just as I have 
read it in dozens of novels'. My horse reared up, the hero 
caught the bridle, hung on it with all his might, and in 
a shorter time than it takes me to tell it Etoile was con- 
quered, and I was thanking ‘my preserver’ with becom- 
ing gratitude.” 

“And did you find out who he was?” 

“My ‘preserver’? — yes, and no. I did not find out his 
name then, for he did not volunteer the information, and 
I did not like to ask it ; but he told me that he was on a 
walking tour, and was staying for a day or two at the 
‘ George’ inn at Dalthorpe. He seemed quite interested 
* when I told him I lived near there, but, as he had not 
thought proper to tell me his name, I did not feel disposed 
to disclose mine ; so we parted with mutual civilities, 
never dreaming that we were to meet again shortly, 
under very different circumstances. ’ ’ 

“Then you saw this gentleman again?” 

“Oh! yes, that very evening. Felix returned from 
town by the afternoon instead of the later train, so, as 
the evening was lovely, we went for a stroll before din- 
ner, while mamma was dozing on the sofa. Just outside 
the park gates who should we meet "but the hero of my 
morning’s adventure ! I forgot to say that of course I 
had confided the whole affair to Felix, who read me a 
lecture on my recklessness, as he was pleased to call it — 
though for my part I can’t see that I was to blame for 
Etoile’s friskiness.” 

“Well,” said Vivien, hurriedly— she was anxious to 
turn the conversation away from Ormerod— “what hap- 
pened then? I suppose you felt obliged to speak.” 

“To my hero? Oh, indeed, I had no occasion to do so ; 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


19 


for, to my utter astonishment, he came straight up to us, 
raised his hat to me, and grasped Felix cordially by the 
hand. Then followed introductions, explanations, and 
so on. It seems that he and Felix are old friends, and 
schoolfellows, too, I believe ; at any rate, they seemed 
uncommonly glad to see each other, though I fancied he 
— my knight of the knapsack, I mean — looked a little dis- 
appointed when he heard my name. Felix thanked him 
warmly for coming to my rescue that morning, and in- 
sisted on his returning with us to the house to be thanked 
again by papa and mamma. And so, to cut my story 
short, this unromantic-looking hero was brought in tri- 
umph to the Towers. Of course papa asked him to din- 
ner, and what is more, when he heard that he was stay- 
ing at the ‘George, ’ begged him to take up his quarters 
here. And so I shall have the pleasure of introducing 
this knight of the knapsack to you at luncheon. ’ ’ 

“But all this time you have not told me his name,” said 
Vivien, smiling. 

“Oh, I forgot. His name is Atherstone — Ralph Ather- 
stone, and Felix says he is one of the cleverest men he 
knows. I am sure you and he will get on splendidly to- 
gether, because you are very clever, too, and you will be 
able to talk to him about things which I am too stupid to 
understand. There, that is the first luncheon-gong sound- 
ing. I must run and smooth my hair, unless I am pre- 
pared to meet one of mamma’s black looks.” 


„ CHAPTER II. 

“ALL OCCASIONS DO INFORM AGAINST ME!” 

When the two girls descended to the drawing-room, 
they found Mrs. Le Marcliant partially recovered from 
her headache, and talking with much graciousness to 
Lady Villebois. 

“How do you do, Miss Lowry? I am very glad to see 
you,” she said, holding out her hand with a careful as- 


198 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


sumption of cordiality. It did not, however, for a mo- 
ment deceive Vivien, who was perfectly aware of the an- 
tipathy Sybil’s mother had for her. 

Fortunately, however, she was spared the necessity for 
further conversation with her hostess by the entrance of 
Mr. Le Marchant and his two guests. Atherstone was 
duly presented to the new arrivals, and as Lady Villebois 
began a lively discussion with Le Marchant, and Ormerod 
and Sybil were standing somewhat apart from the rest, 
Atherstone naturally addressed himself to Vivien, who, 
on her side, felt some amount of interest in one whose 
introduction to Dallas Towers and its inmates had been 
brought about under such unusual conditions. 

As was generally the case with strangers, Vivien’s face 
and figure impressed Atherstone considerably ; not only 
because of their beauty — though that naturally won his 
admiration. The charm which attracted him was some- 
thing higher than the fleeting charm of mere physical 
loveliness. Her stately height, and the grand outlines of 
her form, lent a dignity and meaning to her every move- 
ment, while the ever-varying expression of her mobile 
features and beautiful dark-gray eyes completely rebut- 
ted the charge of cold severity so often brought against 
faces of purely classic mold. Seen in repose, Vivien was 
a handsome, queenly woman; when she spoke and 
smiled, and when her eyes lighted up with enthusiasm, 
she was beautiful, winning, enchanting — no mere words 
can adequately describe the charm of her presence. 

Atherstone, though not — as he would truthfully have 
affirmed— a “lady’s man,” felt unusual interest in talk- 
ing to this handsome Miss Lowry. To begin with, she 
was that rara avis, a good listener— that is, an intelligent 
and sympathetic listener. It was really a pleasure to 
talk to her, and he was stimulated to do his conversa- 
tional best. He made the few minutes before luncheon 
pass so agreeably for Vivien that she was by no means 
sorry to see him take the chair next her own, when they 
went into the dining-room. 

America was a country which had always interested 
her, and her neighbor appeared to be as familiar with 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


199 


the social amenities of Ne>v York and Boston as he was 
with the wild life of Texan cattle-ranchers, and the iatest 
development of modern civilization in San Francisco. 
With true feminine tact, Vivien drew him. on to tell her 
a great deal about liis American experiences. A man 
must be dull, indeed, not to feel the mental stimulus of 
an appreciative auditor, especially when that auditor is 
a beautiful woman. Atherstone — who was certainly not 
dull— really surpassed himself, and more than once the 
low hum of general conversation died away to silence as 
he narrated some thrilling adventure in the Rockies; 
some hair-breadth escape from the deadly hug of a griz- 
zly, or battle for life in the blinding whirl of a mountain 
snow-storm. 

Sybil — who, like most of her sex, from Desdemona 
downward, had a great love of the marvelous — listened 
to these stories with parted lips, and eyes dilated by won- 
der and awe. She felt ashamed of the flippant careless- 
ness with which she had spoken of Atherstone to Vivien. 
It was one thing to have a service rendered her by a man 
whose exterior was neither strikingly handsome nor dis- 
tinguished, and another to know that the hero of all these 
thrilling adventures had saved her from possible death. 

She was not a keen observer, and, consequently, she 
had never troubled herself to find out the real nature of 
the man. She had put him down as a rather plain and 
perfectly uninteresting individual — clever, of course, be- 
cause Felix had said so, and Felix was always right in 
such matters. But his cleverness was not of a sort likely 
to interest or please her. Now, as she listened atten- 
tively, even eagerly, to his conversation with Vivien, she 
began to reproach herself for her injustice toward her 
despised “knight of the knapsack,” as she had dubbed 
him, and to wish that she had the power, which Vivien 
seemed to possess in suoli perfection, of stimulating him 
to pour out those entrancing stories, those brilliant, racy 
descriptions of strange lands and stranger scenes. Even 
Ormerod’s presence at her side failed to dull that mo- 
mentary pang of jealousy. Besides, Felix seemed out of 
spirits ; he talked little, looked pale, abstracted, and alto- 


200 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


gether unlike himself. Compared with that brilliant 
talker opposite, he seemed almost dull. 

Lady VilleboiS, whose attention had hitherto been mo- 
nopolized by her host, also grew interested in Atlier- 
stone’s stories, and little by little the conversation from 
being general became particular. Atherstone talked and 
the rest listened. 

“One of the oddest men I ever met in the whole course 
of my travels,” he was saying to Vivien at the moment 
when his auditors were hushed to silence, “was a wretch- 
ed, half -starved creature I fell in with at Denver. He 
had evidently seen better days at one period of his life. 
His education was good, and his talents remarkable in 
their way. He was the deadest shot, the coolest swords- 
man, and the most fearless rider to be met with between 
New York and ’Frisco, and that is saying something. But 
for one vice, that man might have carved his way to fort- 
une, to a seat in Congress likely enough, for all things 
are possible in the States to a man of talent and perse- 
verance ; if he is not over-scrupulous, all the better — that 
will tell rather for than against him out there. 

“Jim Halfer — that was what he called himself, though 
I knew afterward it was a pseudonym — might at this 
moment be a millionaire with a palace in Fifth Avenue, 
an hotel in Paris, a yacht at Cowes, and a villa some- 
where on the Riviera — might have, in short, all that 
make life pleasant to a successful man — had not the de- 
mon of strong drink had him in thrall. I never saw a 
man give himself over so entirely to the Brandy- Fiend as 
did poor Jim Halfer — but I need not go into details. You 
can guess how he sank inch by inch into the slough of 
poverty, degradation, and finally of semi-idiocy. The 
wretched creature was at last attacked by delirium tre- 
mens, and, as medical skill was then at a premium in 
Denver City, I— for lack of a better— was called to his 
bedside. 

“I found him in a state of such utter destitution that 
common humanity forced me to furnish him with the 
actual necessaries of life during his illness. He had been 
employed and took good wages as a billiard-maker, but 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


201 


his earnings had all been squandered in drink. The 
woman in whose house he lodged helped to nurse him, 
for she had a kind heart under a rough exterior ; and in 
a few weeks poor Halfer, looking the ghost of his former 
self, was able to crawl out into the sunshine. I had 
drawn from him a promise that he would never .touch 
another glass of brandy ; but I confess I doubted his abil- 
ity to keep his word, for nothing is so difficult to cure as 
inebriety when it has reached a certain point. I deter- 
mined, therefore, to spend as much time as possible with 
Jim, in the hope that my presence would put some sort 
of restraint upon him. 

“For a whole fortnight he abstained, and during that 
time he confided to me a good deal of his past history. It 
seemed that he had been a solicitor in fair practice in 
London, but some transaction in which he had become 
involved had rendered it imperative that he should get 
out of the reach of the law. In America his career had 
been most extraordinary. At one time he joined a tribe 
of Indians ; adopted their dress, fought and hunted with 
them until he picked a quarrel with one of the chiefs, and 
was forced to escape under cover of night to the nearest 
white settlement, where he represented himself as a pris- 
oner, who, after a weary captivity, had eluded the vigi- 
lance of the Indians and got away with a whole skin. The 
settlers looked on him as a martyr, treated him with the 
greatest kindness, provided him with clothes and money, 
and sent him on the first opportunity to San Francisco, 
where, for a time, he led a tolerably easy life as a dry- 
goods store employee. But his drunken habits soon got 
him into trouble ; he was ignominiously dismissed from 
his post, and so was again adrift.” 

“Poor creature! did he ever tell you his real name?” 
asked Vivien, pityingly. 

“I am coming to that,” said Atlierstone, gravely. “At 
first, when I pressed him to tell me his real name, he 
seemed unwilling to confide in me so far, though he told 
me himself that the name by which he was known in 
Denver City was not his own. But when he knew him- 
self to be dying he revealed the long-kept secret.” 


202 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Perhaps he was delirious,” said Le Marchant, sud- 
denly; “dying men often are. ” 

The remark was so strange, coming from a man of his 
habitual taciturnity, that the eyes of every one at the ta- 
ble were turned upon him. Even Selina looked surprised 
at her lord’s abrupt words. Lady Villebois, ever on the 
watch to detect any sign of weakness in the man she had 
always distrusted, and now cordially disliked, noticed 
that his red-brown eyes had an uneasy, shifty expression, 
that his dark skin had faded to a dull, sickly white, and 
his lips twitched nervously. That Atherstone’s narra- 
tive should have such an overpowering effect on an im- 
passive individual like Le Marchant was odd. 

“No; the man was not delirious,” replied Ralph, cold- 
ly, “he was, on the contrary, quite calm, and in full pos- 
session of his senses for hours before he died.” 

“Oh, he died, did he?” said Le Marchant, with a slight 
effort. “Not a thing to grieve over, considering his mis- 
erable life.” 

The words were spoken quietly, but on the speaker’s 
face was an unmistakable look of relief. The look did 
not escape Lady Villebois’ quick eye. 

“You have not told us the man’s real name yet,” she 
said, turning eagerly to Atherstone. 

“Jabez Rudd.” 

“A curious name.” 

“Yes,” assented Le Marchant, with white, dry lips. “I 
never remember to have heard it before. ’ ’ 

Lady Villebois looked keenly at him; his eyes fell be- 
fore hers. She knew he lied. 

“Jabez Rudd; it is a curious name,” she mused. “I 
shall bear it in mind. I wonder what is the link that 
connects this man with Le Marchant?” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


203 


CHAPTER III. 

IS IT LOVE? 

After luncheon, Vivien contrived to slip out of the 
drawing-room and escape upstairs to her own room. Like 
many people long used to solitude, whenever anything 
moved her, or whenever a new phase of existence began, 
she longed to get away by herself and think the matter 
quietly out. At such moments the presence of others 
was irksome, because it prevented that intense concen- 
tration of mind necessary for the satisfactory elucidation 
of those life-problems which then presented themselves 
to her. 

That afternoon Vivien had many things to think about, 
many difficulties to solve. So it was with a feeling of 
relief that she closed and locked her door and knew that 
she was secure from intrusion. Drawing a chair to the 
window, which commanded a fine view of the park, she 
sat down and rested her head on her hand. The feeling 
of sadness which had been lessened by Atherstone’s volu- 
bility returned with greater intensity; that strange, 
vague presentiment of coming trouble, which had pos- 
sessed her since this visit to the Towers had been decided 
on, began to take a definite shape. She knew that the 
true reason of her unwillingness to accept the Le Mar- 
chants’ hospitality was because she shrank from meeting 
Ormerod again. But she had never dared to ask herself 
in plain words why she did so. She thrust the question 
resolutely from her whenever it presented itself to her 
mind. Now it rose again and rebelliously demanded an 
answer. Why should she wish to avoid her friend? — was 
he not her friend still? W T as it fair that she should turn 
from him at a moment when it was plain to the dullest 
observer that some trouble overshadowed his life? True, 
he seemed to avoid her ; but was it not part of her duty 
as a friend to win his confidence, and if possible help him 
to bear the trouble, whatever it was? 

It was not in Vivien’s nature to cherish a feeling of 


204 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


resentment against Ormerod because he had not told her 
of his engagement to Sybil. She felt hurt at first, but 
that was all. Now she really wished to serve him, really 
wished his happiness to be secure, honestly hoped that 
his marriage would turn out well, in spite of Lady Ville- 
bois’ gloomy prognostications. Woman-like, she blinded 
herself to the true state of affairs. No thought of love 
had yet ruffled the smooth current of her life, and her 
imagination, vivid as it was, had never led her to dream 
of the change which the master-passion makes in a 
woman’s existence. 

It must be remembered that Vivien had not had the 
varied experience of a young lady reared in an atmos- 
phere redolent of flirtation. It must also be remembered 
that early sorrow tends rather to brace the mental pow- 
ers and strengthen character than to cultivate the emo- 
tions. At an age when most girls in society have had 
the experience which even one London Season brings, she 
was as simple as a child in many of her ideas. It did 
not, for instance, strike her that in playing the part oi 
Ormerod’s friend and of Sybil’s confidante her own peace 
of mind was endangered. Habituated, as she was, to ig- 
nore self and selfish thoughts, such an idea, even had it 
presented itself, would have been scouted and sternly set 
aside. She sincerely desired to do what was right. The 
great difficulty was to be able to judge clearly how she 
might best serve her two friends. 

With regard to Sybil, she had little cause for uneasi- 
ness ; the girl’s nature was so transparent that she flat- 
tered herself she had probed its deepest depths, that she 
knew every trait of her character, her hopes, almost her 
thoughts. • 

Vivien’s experience of character-reading was too lim- 
ited for her to have learned that even the least complex 
nature holds possibilities and capabilities that no human 
eye or brain can penetrate or comprehend. It seemed to 
her that Sybil’s love for Ormerod was the strongest feel- 
ing her heart was capable of. She did not know that 
Sybil loved the love rather than the lover : that Orme- 
rod’s devotion flattered her vanity and pleased her chiefly 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


205 


because it was gratifying to her self-esteem to be. petted 
and admired by a man of his stamp. 

Vivien’s quick sympathies had been enlisted in Sybil’s 
behalf because she knew that the poor child had suffered 
considerably in the past from the somewhat cold if not 
harsh treatment she had met with at her parents’ hands ; 
consequently, she felt that Ormerod’s betrothed was en- 
titled to all the affection it must be his delight to lavish 
on her. As Sybil had known so little happiness during 
the years of her girlhood, it was only just that her mar- 
ried life should be cloudless. 

But then that tiresome thought again thrust itself on 
her. Was Ormerod happy, too? That' perplexing ques- 
tion kept recurring to her mind with wearying iteration. 
Was he happy? — happy as Sybil’s accepted lover ought 
to be? 

She buried her face in her hands as if to shut out the 
remembrance of his pale visage and sad eyes. How 
changed he was from the calm, self-confident Ormerod 
of a few weeks ago ! What had wrought this change? 

It was impossible to come to a satisfactory solution of 
the mystery. Vivien thought over it until her head 
ached, and then that other tiresome question forced its 
way to the front and demanded an answer. Why had 
she felt so reluctant to meet the man she liked to think of 
as her friend? 

At last, wearied out by the tension of her mind, Vivien 
rose with a heavy sigh and looked out across the park. 
It was a beautiful afternoon ; * the sky was brilliant, and 
a fresh breeze rustled the leaves of the grand old oaks. A 
sudden impulse prompted her to don her hat. She would 
pay a visit to the Retreat. The quiet of the place, and 
the associations which rendered it almost sacred in her 
eyes, would surely dissipate the troubled thoughts which 
harassed and perplexed her. Unlocking the door, she 
stole quietly down the long, silent corridors, down the 
grand staircase, across the Gothic hall, and with some 
difficulty found her way to a glass door which Sybil had 
told her led out into the most retired part of the garden. 
She was particularly anxious to avoid meeting any one, 


206 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


and she knew that, as the drawing-room windows looked 
out on the terrace, it would not be easy to escape obser- 
vation unless she could get out by the back of the house. 
Congratulating herself on having made good her retreat, 
she hurried across the garden to a small gate which she 
rightly guessed led to the narrow path she had traversed 
with Le Marchant on her first visit to the Towers. This 
would lead her direct to the corner of the park where the 
Retreat was situated. 

The fresh air had already done her good ; the feeling 
of depression gave place to a brighter mood. She could 
again think clearly and calmly, but she resolutely put 
aside those perplexing questions which had troubled her 
all the afternoon. Vivien was in the habit of exercising 
a vigorous control over her thoughts, and was conse- 
quently able to turn them firmly away from any train of 
ideas it seemed inadvisable to pursue. She had decided 
that for the present it was impossible to arrive at any 
conclusion on the subject, so she wisely resolved to dis- 
miss it from her mind. 

Her thoughts, suddenly diverted from the channel in 
which they had run all the afternoon, turned off abruptly 
in a new direction. Atherstone’s conversation at lunch- 
eon, and particularly that story of his about the broken- 
down adventurer of Denver City, suddenly flashed into 
her recollection, and an entirely new train of ideas was 
suggested to her. Le Marchant’s curious eagerness to hear 
how the outcast had ended his miserable career, the look 
of relief which had momentarily lighted his face when 
he heard of the man’s death, had not escaped her. She 
wondered why the master of Dallas Towers should feel 
any interest in the fate of one who, to all appearances, 
could have no connection with his own fortunes. 

Other thoughts had. for the moment driven the cir- 
cumstance from her mind, but now, as she walked slowly 
across the park, she recalled it. She resolved to ask 
Lady Villebois on the first opportunity if she also had 
noted Le Marchant’s odd behavior. That quick-witted 
observer did not often allow things to escape her, and no 
doubt she had drawn her own conclusions as to the cause 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


207 


of their host’s mental perturbation. Vivien had the 
greatest faith in the penetration of the kind-hearted if 
sharp-tongued lady who had so generously taken up the 
cudgels in her behalf. 

In that matter of her own possible claim to the Dallas 
estates, she was far from sanguine. Besides, she disliked 
the idea of acting in any way against Sybil’s father; it 
smacked of treachery to her friend, and, had not Lady 
Villebois exercised the full force of her influence over 
her, it is certain that those inquiries regarding her grand- 
father’s last days would never have been made — and this 
history would never have been written. As Tristram 
Lowry’s daughter, Vivien felt that she could never bring 
herself to like or even tolerate the man who had driven 
him to his death ; but she had no wish to avenge the 
wrong done to him by bringing Le Marchant to poverty, 
social ruin, and disgrace — disgrace that would reflect on 
his wife and daughter. 

Musing thus, Vivien had unconsciously diverged from 
the path which led to the Retreat. She wandered on 
quite at random across the velvety turf oblivious of the 
fact that every step she took was leading her away from 
the quiet haven she sought. At last the sound of voices 
roused her from her reverie, and, before she had time to 
retreat' she saw and recognized two people whose tUe-a- 
tete was apparently so absorbing that they were unaware 
of her approach. Seated on the gnarled roots of a giant 
oak-tree were Ormerod and Sybil. 

Vivien, uncertain whether to advance or retire, stood 
for a moment in some embarrassment. The color rushed 
to her cheeks ; a sudden shyness seemed to paralyze her. 

“Felix, do you know I should like to make you jealous, 
just to pique you into loving me— as— as I thought you 
did when you talked to me on the terrace last June?” 

Sybil’s voice had a ring of pathetic reproach that made 
Ormerod glance quickly and inquiringly into her face. 
Something he read there sent a thrill of self-accusation 
through him ; a sudden impulse moved him. He drew 
Sybil’s head to his breast and kissed her gently on her 
brow and lips. 


208 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“My little Sybil, you know I love you.” 

Vivien, standing there under the broad shade of the 
oak-trees, heard the words he uttered, and saw the caress 
so lovingly given. A sudden pang of anguish shook her. 
A terrifying, sickening feeling of dread — dread of herself 
— overpowered her as she turned and fled from the spot. 
Great Heaven ! what madness was this? With her brain 
whirling, and her heart beating so loudly and tumultu- 
ously that the very air seemed to quiver with its pulsa- 
tions, she stumbled on, until at last, faint and exhausted 
by the violence of her emotion, she paused and leaned 
against the bole of “an immemorial elm” — a grand old 
tree which had stood there for centuries, while men and 
women lived and suffered, and loved, and died, fretting 
away their lives in the feverish search for that elusive 
something men call happiness. 

Vivien leaned her head on the rugged bark of the grand 
old tree, and looked up through the interstices of its thick 
leafage to the serene summer sky beyond. It steadied 
her to look up at those flickering green leaves, at those 
patches of blue. The awful feeling of aloneness which 
had fallen on her as she fled from those two passed away. 
She clasped one arm round the massive girth of the elm- 
bole as if it had been a sentient thing that could help her 
to bear her sorrow ; as if contact with its rugged strength 
must give vigor to her trembling frame and courage to 
her sinking heart. As she rested her tired body against 
the tree, the dizziness cleared away from her brain, the 
power of coherent thought returned, and with it came 
an overpowering sense of shame. She bowed her head 
and hid her face against the friendly tree. The question 
she had asked herself so often was answered : she knew 
now why she had shrunk from meeting Ormerod at the 
Towers. 

As that sudden pang of jealousy— yes, she would at 
least be honest with herself, she would give it its right 
name— had torn her heart, Vivien knew the truth. She 
loved this man— loved the man who was to be Sybil’s 
husband. Oh, the bitter humiliation of such a confession ! 

Seen by the light of her present knowledge, every little 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


209 


event of her life since she first saw Ormerod wore a new 
aspect. As she stood there with the sunlight darting its 
long golden arrows down through the quivering green 
leaves until they touched her bowed head, and glorified 
it with a nimbus of light, she mentally lived the past few 
weeks over again. The bright June day when he had 
come to her across the sun-lit lawn at Rollestone House 
as she stood under the dark cedar-shade ; their talk that 
afternoon and evening on the terrace — she could recall 
every word with painful clearness — the day they met 
again in Lady Villebois’ drawing-room ; their adventure 
in the Lambeth slums ; her promise to be his friend al- 
ways. Every scene rose vividly before her ; every look 
and gesture of his, every change of expression, every in- 
flection of tone came back to her. 

How she had deceived herself ! From the first hour of 
their meeting she had loved him, and she had foolishly 
thought she would be content with his friendship. How 
blind she had been — and how wicked ! That was the bit- 
terest thought of all: the man she loved was Sybil’s 
promised husband. Sybil ! — the girl who had confided in 
her, who had treated her as a beloved sister rather than 
as a friend ! How could she meet Sybil’s eyes now ! 
Would not her guilt be written on her face so unmistak- 
ably that even Sybil, unsuspicious as she was, must read 
her miserable secret? If she despised herself for her 
weakness and her folly, would not Sybil despise her, too? 

Lifting her head from her hands, Vivien looked around 
her with troubled eyes. The mere thought of meeting the 
gaze of curious eyes overwhelmed her with shame and 
dread. She must fight out the battle with herself, alone 
and in silence. Where could she hide herself? Where 
could she find a refuge where she would be safe from all 
intrusion? As she glanced about her, with the frightened, 
startled gaze of a wild bird caught in a snare, her eyes 
fell on a clump of trees to the right, and through the 
thick curtain of leaves she could just distinguish the out- 
lines of a small stone building. With a low exclamation 
of relief, she hurried toward it. There was a haven 
where she might hide her anguish ; there no prying eyes 


210 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


could watch her. There, among the relics of her moth- 
er’s youth, calmer thoughts would come, and with them 
strength to thrust away those haunting memories of 
words and scenes that must henceforth be buried in ob- 
livion. 

As on a former opcasion, the door yielded to her hand, 
and she entered the Retreat with something of the rev- 
erent awe of a devotee before a shrine. The very air of 
the place seemed to calm her nerves. The utter silence 
which reigned in the forsaken studio, where Catherine had 
once dreamed love’s young dream, soothed Catherine’s 
daughter in the hour of her deepest distress. The memories 
associated with every neglected, dust-covered book and 
picture her mother’s hands had touched brought the re- 
lief of tears to her dry, aching eyes. As the great drops 
gathered and fell, the dark clouds of despair lifted, and a 
faint gleam of hope shone on the dull wretchedness of 
her mind. She had been disloyal to Sybil, but she would 
atone : she loved, but she would conquer her love. She 
would school herself to put away every thought of self ; 
she would be Sybil’s faithful sister — Ormerod’s friend 
still. If her heart bled under the severity of the disci- 
pline — if she suffered, why, suffer she must : it would be a 
fitting punishment for her wicked folly. 

No one should ever know of her madness. The possi- 
bility of such a catastrophe brought the hot color to her 
cheek ; the mere thought that Ormerod himself might 
guess her secret was a moral torture to her. She would 
die rather than let him know it. Surely she had enough 
of womanly dignity and self-control to hide her feelings. 
But if the strain proved too much for her, if her strength 
failed, she would go out into the world again, and learn 
in the stern struggle of a life of poverty and work how to 
conquer self. Lady Villebois would give her back her 
liberty, and she would return to Camberwell, and work 
for her living among the people who had befriended her 
when she was left alone in the world. The past few 
months would be a closed chapter in her history, whose 
leaves she would not turn until she had courage to think 
calmly of its leading episode. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


211 


“That will be best,” she thought, with a sudden long- 
ing for the peaceful little parlor behind the book-shop, 
where she had dreamed happy dreams over the dingy 
volumes which formed the old bookseller’s stock-in-trade. 
“I will go away and forget all this. I must have work 
to do ; something to think about ; something to drive all 
this folly from my mind.” 

But it was all very well to plan out this new scheme ; 
it was absolutely impossible to carry it out at once. To 
begin with, she was pledged to spend a week at Dallas 
Towers, and, without some plausible excuse, it would be 
difficult to parry the searching questions which Sybil and 
Lady Villebois would put to her. What reason could she 
give for such an inexplicable freak? She pressed both 
hands to her forehead, and racked her brain for some ex- 
planation which would stand the test of close question- 
ing. But no, there seemed no way out of the difficulty, 
no loophole by which she could escape rom her present 
position. She must go straight on, and face her troubles 
as best she might. For a week, at least, she must bear 
her burden in silence and with a brave heart ; must put 
a watch on herself ; must talk to Sybil about her ap- 
proaching marriage ; smile as she listened to her naive 
confidences ; speak words of conventional vapidity to the 
man who had won her heart and made her taste the bit- 
terness of knowing that while she loved him as a woman 
rarely loves — tenderly, unselfishly, purely — he cared for 
her -only as a friend. A friend ! — the title she had once 
delighted to give him seemed an empty mockery to her 
now, for a man must be something more or less than a 
friend to the woman who loves him. 

A week ! — it would be a fiery ordeal, but it must be 
borne, and bravely borne, though every hour spent with 
Ormerod would be fraught with suffering. But Vivien, 
like the brave-hearted woman she was, made up her 
mind that the task she had set herself must be performed. 
Like Damien, on the morning of the day when death was 
to come to him in horrible guise, she thought the week 
would be long, but it would have an end. When those 
seven weary days were over, she might creep away 


212 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


somewhere and rest. Then she must begin her life again, 
and the past must be forgotten. 

At last she roused herself and rose to her feet. The 
shadows were already lengthening, and her limbs felt 
tired. It must be late ; she would be missed and perhaps 
sought for. She smoothed her ruffled hair with her 
trembling hands, and wondered nervously if her eyes 
were red. It would be better to run the chance of meet- 
ing any one in the park than to linger longer there. She 
moved toward the door, opened it slowly, and passed out 
into the brilliant evening light. 


CHAPTER IV. 

COUNTY MAGNATES. 

“Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute.'" Vivien found 
that, her first meeting with Ormerod and Sybil over, the 
difficulties of the task of self -repression she had imposed 
on herself were by no means insuperable. On returning 
to the house she contrived to slip up to her own room un- 
observed, and thus gained time to compose her features 
before subjecting them to the scrutiny of Mrs. Le Mar- 
chant and her guests. After carefully washing the traces 
of tears from her cheeks, she put on her dinner-dress and 
felt more confidence in her powers of dissimulation. 

The looking-glass did not reveal any startling change 
in her personal appearance. She looked a trifle pale and 
heavy-eyed, but the usual feminine excuse of a headache 
would account for that. Hoping to enter the drawing- 
room under cover of the friendly twilight, she went down 
without waiting for Sybil, who was humming a tune as 
she dressed in the next room. But, unfortunately for her 
project, Vivien met Le Marchant as she was crossing the 
hall. In the dim lamp-light she tried to slip past him, 
but that sharp-eyed individual was too astute to let an 
opportunity pass of making himself agreeable to the girl 
he was so anxious to conciliate. 

“Is that you, Miss Lowry?” he said, suavely; “this 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


213 


big old hall is so difficult to light properly that we are 
obliged to put up with this semi-darkness. By-the-by, I 
don’t think I have done the honors of the place. Will 
you walk round the hall? j shall have nearly half an 
hour before dinner.” 

Not knowing what excuse to offer, Vivien listened pa- 
tiently to Le Marchant’s platitudes on the subject of 
Gothic architecture in general and the Gothic hall in par- 
ticular, until Sybil came tripping down the grand stair- 
case and released her. 

“My dear Vivien, where have you been hiding all the 
afternoon?” she said, brightly, linking her arm affection- 
ately in Vivien’s, “Felix and I scoured the park in 
search of you.’’ 

“I had rather a headache,” said Vivien, in a low voice, 
“so I indulged in a solitary walk.” 

“Poor darling ! I hope the headache has gone now, ” 
murmured Sybil, sympathetically. 

“Yes — almost.” 

“Papa has been boring you, hasn’t he?” (this in a con- 
fidential whisper). 

“N— no.” 

“I thought he had, because you look so pale.” 

Vivien managed to smile, and the two girls entered the 
drawing-room together. 

Sybil seemed in unusually brilliant spirits that even- 
ing; she looked charmingly pretty, too, in her white silk 
gown. Round her throat she had fastened the pearl neck- 
lace that had been Ormerod’s betrothal gift. With her 
curly brown locks clustering about her smooth, child-like 
forehead, her fresh, rosy lips smiling, her eyes bright 
with happiness and animation, she looked so bewitching 
that any slight defect of feature was forgotten. Even 
sober Ralph Atherstone seemed to feel the charm of her 
girlish beauty as she sat between Ormerod and him at 
dinner, and talked gayly to both. What if she were not 
so intelligent a listener as Vivien — a man does not always 
care to be put on his conversational mettle. Atherstone 
found it quite as agreeable to descend to the mental level 


214 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


of his pretty neighbor, as it had been to be stimulated to 
talk brilliantly by the sympathetic attention of the hand- 
some girl he had sat near at luncheon. It was really a 
pleasure to remain passive while Sybil kept him amused 
by the naivete of her remarks, and something more than 
a pleasure to watch her bright, piquant, sparkling little 
face. 

In honor of Lady Villebois’ visit, Mrs. Le Marchant 
felt it incumbent upon her to make some exertion to en- 
tertain her distinguished guest. She had therefore in- 
vited some half-dozen of their nearest neighbors to dine 
and sleep at the Towers. These additional guests, though 
not individually brilliant, brought grist to the conversa- 
tional mill, and thus added considerably to the apparent 
festivity of the meal. ♦ 

Theobald Marston, J. P. — a ruddy-cheeked, gray-haired 
country squire — did not talk with the cleverness of a pro- 
fessional diner-out; he had no carefully-prepared bon- 
mots to let off, no epigrams, no witty anecdotes, but his 
ringing, jolly laugh was pleasant to hear, and he ate his 
dinner and drank his wine with such evident gusto, that 
it did you good to look at him. His wife was a somewhat 
stiff but stately dame, with an overweening sense of her 
own importance. She married Theobald Marston with a 
settled determination to rule the matrimonial roost, and 
he, like a good fellow as he was, had such thorough con- 
fidence in the superior talents of his Lucy, that the said 
Lucy had had things pretty much her own way from the 
hour she first crossed the threshold of her husband’s 
house. The sons and daughters who had been born to 
them had never ventured to question their mother’s au- 
thority. Mrs. Marston at fifty was as thorough an auto- 
crat as she had been at five-and-twenty. Time certainly 
had not diminished her confidence in herself, or her con- 
sciousness of the important position she filled in the 
county. 

The Marstons were an old family, but the house of 
Mountcashel was something superlative in the way of 
antiquity. Mrs. Marston had been a Miss Mountcashel, 
and she seldom lost an opportunity of bringing that im- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


215 


portant fact to your notice. Ill-natured people said she 
was accustomed to sit alone for an hour or so every morn- 
ing and meditate on the grandeur of all the Mountcashels 
who slept their last sleep in the family vault at Mount- 
cashel Abbey, and on the reflected glory which shone on 
her own head from that illustrious ancestry. But that 
must have been pure calumny ; for Mrs. Marston was a 
very busy woman, who looked well to the ways of her 
household, and liked to have a finger in the pie when her 
husband proposed to lay out a few thousands in drainage 
or cottage-building. 

She was a handsome woman still, with bright, clear 
gray eyes, smooth brown hair (unflecked as yet with 
gray), aquiline features of the true patrician type, a fresh 
complexion, and a figure that erred perhaps a trifle in 
the matter of stateliness ; but Lucy Marston had always 
prided herself on the dignity of her carriage, and she had 
no notion of adopting any new-fangled ideas about 
“grace.” In the days when she was the belle of Corn- 
shire, it was a golden rule that a woman’s deportment 
should do credit to the long course of back-board which 
she, in common with all well-brought-up young ladies, 
underwent in the school-room. 

It was one of the few disappointments of Mrs. Mars- 
ton’s life that in spite of all her o*re ; in spite of a pro- 
longed course of drilling, and calisthenics, and dumb- 
bells ; and in spite of the admirable example before their 
eyes, her daughter did not carry themselves with the dig- 
nity befitting the descendants of Sir Raoul de Mount- 
cashel. This — and all other deficiencies — was put down 
by their mother to the fact that their paternal ancestors' 
had never been remarkable for the distinguished bearing 
that had always stamped the Mountcashels. 

Since *her marriage, Mrs. Marston had not seen much 
of society beyond the limits of the county. Of the great 
world of London and its varied phases of life, she knew 
little or nothing. Her visits to the metropolis were 
usually restricted to a week or two during the season, 
By-and-by, when her daughters should be of an age to be 
launched on the social sea, whose port is matrimony, the 


216 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Marstons would take a house. in Mayfair, and go through 
the regulation round of gayeties in the regulation way. 
But the Misses Marston, figuratively speaking, had not 
yet left the educational “stocks,” the gay craft which 
were to breast the waves of a sea which even to descend- 
ants of the Mountcashels is not always smooth, were not 
yet ready for that momentous event ; so their mother 
wisely resolved to stay quietly at home, and be as eco- 
nomical as her husband’s passion for high-farming would 
permit. 

Ladj r Villebois’ reputation as a leader of society had 
not reached Marston Hall, and the mistress of that his- 
toric mansion looked somewhat askance at the lively old 
lady whose keen blue eyes shot half-satiric, half-amused 
glances in her direction. Was it possible that she could 
be laughing at her, Lucy Marston — at her, the represent- 
ative of the Mountcashels? The very thought of such 
unseemly levity made the good lady’s back stiffen as she 
pressed her lips together and glanced defiantly across at 
Lady Villebois. 

Le Marchant, with a vivid recollection of various occa- 
sions on which it had devolved upon him to entertain 
Mrs. Marston, was delighted that the laws of precedence 
decreed that Lady Villebois should occupy the seat of 
honor on his right. Her quick wit amused him and kept 
him in an unusual state of good-humor, and, all consid- 
erations of prudence apart, he really tried to make him- 
self agreeable to her. Mrs. Marston, feeling neglected and 
altogether out of her element — for they talked of people 
and places of which she knew nothing — allowed herself 
to be monopolized by the rector of Dalthorpe, a meek lit- 
tle man of good family and no particular talents, who 
had had the honor of taking her in to dinner. 

The rest of the party included a handsome, soldier-like 
old general, and his wife, a pale, flaxen-haired woman 
who copied Mrs. Le Marchant’s style of dress— a species 
of tacit flattery which that lady secretly resented— and 
the rector’s wife, a stalwart female who ruled her lord 
with a rod of iron. The conversation was about up to 
the standard of that heard at most country-house dinners 




LIKE LUCIFER. 217 

there was the usual amount of county gossip with the 
usual leaven of political small talk. 

Ormerod looked slightly bored. “This sort of thing,” 
as he phrased it, was not at all in his line. If a series of 
these dinners was an indispensable concomitant to his 
position as M. P. for Compton Magna, he began to think 
the price of that position was in excess of its value. 

Vivien was relieved to find that her hostess had sent 
her in to dinner with a heavy-faced, dull-eyed young man 
who was introduced as Mr. Mountcashel Mareton. The 
hopeful heir of the two illustrious families, whose united 
honors he was one day destined to wear, was by no 
means a formidable individual, physically or mentally. 
His monosyllabic conversation made little demand on 
her attention, and his stolid good-humor fairly set her at 
her ease. There was no fear that any traces of emotion 
which a quick eye might detect in her face would be ob- 
served by Mr. Mountcashel Marston, for his whole soul 
seemed concentrated in the business of dinner. 

The general, who sat on her left, was engaged in a 
lively discussion about parochial matters with the rec- 
tor’s wife, so she was left to pursue her own reflections in 
peace. Ormerod was hidden from her by a pyramid of 
flowers and ferns, so that matters were altogether better 
than she had hoped, and she already congratulated her- 
self on the comparative tranquillity that had come to her. 

When the ladies had retired from the dinner-table, and 
betaken themselves to the drawing-room with the usual 
flutter of laces and rustle of silk attendant on that femi- 
nine Hegira, Sybil seated herself at her side and whis- 
pered a few words of inquiry about that “tiresome head- 
ache of hers.” 

“You looked so pale at dinner, dear, I was quite un- 
happy about you,” she said, sympathetically, with that 
slight perversion of truth of which young ladies are 
sometimes guilty. “I hope you will be better to-morrow, 
because mamma has actually got up an impromptu pic- 
nic — a thing I know she detests — solely in your honor. I 
believe, though, it was originally papa’s idea — do you 
know, you have really made a conquest of my respected 


218 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


pater? I never saw him so civil to any one before. Yes,” 
she went on, gravely nodding her head, “I assure you it 
is a fact. Papa has ‘taken to you,’ as my old nurse 
used to say. Do you feel honored?” 

A shadow fell on Vivien’s face, and she turned away 
her head to hide the expression of dislike she knew was 
written there. Le Marchant’s suave civilities disgusted 
and at the same time puzzled her. 

“I won’t press you for an answer,” Sybil went on, in a 
bantering tone, “but seriously, dear, you must get rid of 
that headache, because I want you to enjoy our expedi- 
tion to Oak Hill Wood to-morrow. By-the-by, I hope 
we shall have fine weather. Let us go out on the terrace, 
Vivien, for a few minutes and see if it looks promising.” 

The night was warm, and several of the long windows 
stood open. The two girls passed out and slowly paced 
up and down in the star-light. The trees in the park 
looked black against the clear-obscure of the quiet night 
sky ; not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. 

“What a lovely night !” said Vivien, looking up at the 
“glimmering orbs” which studded the vast expanse of 
cloudless sky. 

“Yes, I think we may count on a fine day to-morrow,” 
remarked Sybil, in a matter-of-fact tone ; her thoughts 
were still running on the proposed excursion. Social fes- 
tivities were not too frequent at that time of the year in 
Grasshire, and she looked forward to this picnic with al- 
most childish eagerness. 

“Vivien, how quiet you are to-night,” she said, when 
they had paced silently up and down for some minutes. 
“I thought you would be pleased about the picnic,” she 
added, in a hurt tone, “but you don’t seem to care about 
it. ’ 

“Yes, I do,” said Vivien, quickly, blushing as she ut- 
tered the fib ; “what made you think I was not pleased?” 

“You looked troubled, almost vexed, when I mentioned 
it at first.” 

It was true : Sybil’s joyous announcement had filled 
her with dismay, because she knew that for the whole of 
one long summer day it would be almost impossible to 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


219 


avoid Ormerod. In all probability they would be seated 
in the same carriage, for Sybil would certainly arrange 
that her friend should go with her, and Ormerod would 
naturally be in attendance on his betrothed. 

The idea of excusing herself on the plea of illness 
crossed Vivien’s mind, only to be quickly dismissed as 
impracticable. The last thing she wished was to attract at- 
tention to herself, and her absence from the picnic would 
certainly be remarked, and possibly commented on. The 
consciousness that she had something to hide made her 
nervously apprehensive lest any act, or word, or look of 
hers should betray her secret. She felt oppressed and 
weighed down by a sense of her own guilt and folly. Now 
that she was alone with Sybil, the painfulness of her po- 
sition toward her friend came home to her anew. 

“Don’t you care about the picnic?” persisted Sybil, 
misinterpreting the other’s silence. 

“I like anything that will give you pleasure. If you 
enjoy yourself, I shall enjoy myself, too,” replied Vivien, 
evasively, despising herself for being hypocritical as well 
as untruthful. 

And with this unsatisfactory answer Sybil was fain to 
be content. 


CHAPTER V. 

CYMOM AND IPHIGENIA. 

The next morning the sun shone out with the promise 
of a glorious day. So far as the weather was concerned, 
it was evident that the picnic would be a success. The 
golden uprising of the sun was watched with very differ- 
ent feelings by the two girls. Sybil was radiant with 
glee as she opened her window to let in a flood of sun- 
light ; while Vivien, who had passed a sleepless night, 
felt a vague hope she had cherished die within her— a 
hope that a morning of rain and storm would put a stop 
to the proposed excursion. Bracing herself to meet the 
inevitable, she rose and dressed and then leaned both 
arms on the window-sill and looked out at the brilliant 


220 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


blue sky> Not a cloud was to be seen. The breeze which 
fanned her hot, aching forehead was balmy with the 
breath of flowers and fresh with the dewy coolness of 
early morning, but she turned from the window with an 
aching heart. She would far rather have looked on the 
gray gloom of November than on that radiant summer 
sky ; rather have felt a chill autumn blast than that per- 
fumed breeze. 

“What a selfish creature I am!” she murmured, re- 
morsefully, as she thought of Sybil — Sybil in her bright- 
est, gayest, most winsome mood. “Why should I wish 
to spoil the enjoyment of perhaps twenty people, just be- 
cause I shrink from what I richly deserve — a little pain? 
Come, let there be an end of this cowardice — I will root 
out a love that is wicked, foolish, and disloyal.” 

Though Vivien made the resolution bravely enough 
and sincerely enough, there was a latent conviction in 
her heart that the love she stigmatized as “wicked, foolish, 
and disloyal” was a noble and ennobling passion that 
neither time nor absence would change. Save that one 
brief pang of jealousy, no leaven of selfishness mingled 
with her love for Ormerod. A feeling of intense thank- 
fulness filled her as she thought that he was spared the 
anguish she suffered. Sybil’s affection sufficed for his 
happiness; life stretched bright and fair before him; 
there were no clouds of doubt over his future. 

Full of her new resolution, Vivien looked round the 
room in search of something to divert her thoughts from 
the forbidden channel. Her eyes lighted on a row of 
gayly-bound volumes on the dainty little writing-table. 
She rose and chose one at random. It was that grand 
prose epic, “Romola.” Vivien had heard of the book, 
but had never read it. She turned the first few pages 
carelessly, but as she went on her attention was arrested, 
and ere she had finished the first chapter she had forgot- 
ten her present surroundings, forgotten her anxieties. 
She was at Florence, living in the Middle Ages, and al- 
most as happy as when, in the little back-shop at Cam- 
berwell, the world of books was her only world. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


001 

/O/vl 

When Vivien went down to breakfast, she found most 
of the guests already assembled. Mrs. Marston, looking 
stiffer and statelier than ever in her morning-gown and 
cap, was carrying on a one-sided discussion with her host, 
who listened to her with languid interest. Mrs. Le Mar- 
chant, arrayed in an artistically juvenile costume of pale 
gray, was already seated at the head of the table before 
a quaint Queen Anne service of antique silver— one of 
the many heirlooms bequeathed by James Dallas to his 
nephew. As she shook hands with Vivien, Mrs. Le Mar- 
chant’s cold eyes scrutinized the pale face of her guest 
with some curiosity. She had never liked her daughter’s 
friend. To a woman of her temperament there was some- 
thing vaguely antipathetic, something hurtful to her own 
amour-propre in this serene-eyed, clear-browed girl 
whose quiet dignity of mien deprecated patronage. It 
vexed her to think that any woman should possess not 
only mental powers superior to her own, but — what she 
valued far more — beauty and youth and freshness. 

Vivien, though at a loss to understand why Sybil’s 
mother disliked her, was perfectly conscious of the fact. 
As she met Mrs. Le Marchant’s keen gaze she felt she 
would need all her powers of self-control to hide her se- 
cret from those cold, curious eyes. It was an effort to 
talk naturally in Mrs. Le Marchant’s presence ; it was 
difficult to keep up any semblance of cordiality toward 
her hostess, and it was trebly difficult to meet Ormerod 
while those inquisitive gray eyes watched her. 

Much to her surprise, the heavy-faced young man who 
had taken her in to dinner on the previous evening 
proved an invaluable and unexpected ally. Breakfast 
not being so absorbingly important an affair as dinner, 
young Marston allowed his attention to wander from liis 
plate to Vivien, who, seeing an unoccupied chair by his 
side, had seated herself therein, partly because her ex- 
perience overnight had shown her that Mr; Mountcasliel 
Marston would not be an exacting neighbor conversa- 
tionally, partly because the chair was at a considerable 
distance from Ormerod ’s. 

“Splendid day for a picnic, Miss Lowry,’’ began the 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


222 


heir of the Marstons, by way of opening the conversation. 
“Fond of picnics?” 

“I have never been to one,” replied Vivien, smiling. 

“No, really now?” 

“I have always lived in London, Mr. Marston,” she 
said, gravely, as he opened his round blue eyes wonder- 
ingly at her. 

“No ; have you, though? Always?” 

“Yes, always, until a few weeks ago.” 

“But how about hunting? How did you manage about 
that?” It had never entered into the philosophy of this 
young man to imagine a life spent without the joys of 
hunting ; to him such a life would distinctly not be 
worth living. 

“I don’t hunt,” replied Vivien, coolly. “I have never 
been on a horse in my life. ’ ’ 

“You don’t mean to say you don’t ride,” he cried, 
aghast. “Why, why,” he added, with a glance at the 
supple figure near him, “I should have thought — ” 

Vivien laughed, as he paused awkwardly, and then 
went on, with unusual animation : 

“Let me teach you, Miss Lowry. I have a beautiful 
little mare, just suitable for a lady. I’ll get her used to 
a habit, and then — ” 

“You are very kind.” 

“Oh, I shall be delighted — and the mare doesn’t get 
half enough exercise.” Then, with a dash at what he 
felt was a bold request, he added, “May I ride over to 
Mordaunt’s Rest on the mare one day — just to show her 
to you? Then you can think it over — I mean, whether 
you would care to ride her yourself.” 

Vivien, not being bound fast in the chains of conven- 
tionality, and in innocent unconsciousness that Mrs. Mars- 
ton ’s eyes were riveted on her with a disapproving stare, 
that said as plainly as a stare could, “Who is this young 
woman, I wonder!” replied frankly: 

“Oh, yes, come by all means ; we shall be very pleased 
to see you.” 

Young Marston’s heavy face brightened until it looked 
almost handsome : he thought Miss Lowry the nicest girl 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


223 


he had ever met. How different she was from the young 
ladies he saw at the Grasshire dinner-parties and dances ! 
She was certainly better-looking than the prettiest of 
them, and she was not shy or awkward or fast, as so 
many of the aforesaid young ladies were ; she did not 
snub him, or “set her cap at him,” as he elegantly 
phrased it, though she was both clever and handsome. 
(Marston had always made up his mind that clever and 
handsome women did either the one or the other.) He 
resolved to see as much as possible of Vivien during his 
stay at Dallas Towers. 

Vivien, on the other hand, felt grateful because he had 
helped her to get over an unpleasant half-hour ; and she 
smiled so kindly on him that the infatuated youth flat- 
tered himself that he had already made a favorable im- 
pression on her. Never had young Marston talked so 
much, at least, to a lady — he could be fluent enough in 
the smoking-room or the stable-yard, but the presence of 
the fairer half of creation generally reduced him to bash- 
ful and boorish silence. 

When breakfast was over, and the ladies had retired to 
put on their bonnets — for the carriages had been ordered 
for ten o’clock — Marston hung about the Gothic hall with 
the intention of securing a seat in the same vehicle as 
Vivien. When that young lady appeared, still looking 
somewhat pale, but very lovely in a picturesque Gains- 
borough hat, she was at once taken possession of by her 
new admirer. 

“Evidently, a case of Cymon and Iphigenia,” muttered 
Le Marchant, whose lynx eyes had already noted young 
Marston ’s infatuation; “that fox-hunting lout is not the 
man to please a charming girl like Vivien,” he mused, 
thus paying a mental tribute of admiration to Cath- 
erine’s daughter. 

In spite of himself, he felt a kindly interest in the girl ; 
he really liked and admired her. For the first time in his 
life, he felt conscious of his own moral inferiority. His 
conscience pricked him for the part he had played 
twenty years ago. He felt uneasy as he watched Viv- 
ien’s face. What a noble-looking creature she was ! He 


224 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


wished he could do something to repair the wrong he had 
done her. He would do anything short of — He checked 
himself sternly as a thought crossed his mind. It was 
sheer madness even to contemplate such a sacrifice. Any- 
thing but that he would do for Vivien. 

He was resolved to settle a sum of money on her in 
such a manner that she would never know who was the 
giver. He knew that she would not alter her decision ; 
that she would accept nothing from him. But he was 
determined to be her friend, whether she wished it or not. 

His lip curled as he watched young Marston’s clumsy 
endeavors to make himself agreeable to Vivien. He felt 
almost angry with the “fox-hunting lout” for daring to 
lift his eyes to her. 

By the time the carriages came round to the door, most 
of the people had a/xembled. Sybil, radiant in a pink 
muslin gown, looked anxiously about for her friend. 

“Felix, have you seen Vivien?” she asked of Ormerod, 
in an eager tone. “I want her to drive with us, and I 
am so afraid I shall miss her.” 

A peculiar expression crossed Ormerod ’s face, but he 
meekly proceeded to do as Sybil asked him. He glanced 
round the hall, and looked in several of the rooms lead- 
ing out of it, but Vivien was nowhere to be seen. 

“I can’t find Miss Lowry,” he said, when he returned. 
“Perhaps she has already started. I heard carriage- 
wheels a moment ago.” 

“Oh! I hope not,” cried Sybil. “Perhaps she is on 
the terrace. Do go and look for her, Felix.” 

Ormerod had no excuse to offer. He went. 

“Oh, the perversity of woman!” he thought, as he 
crossed the hall. 

He was vexed with Sybil for placing him in so embar- 
rassing a position. Why would she persist in making it 
so difficult for him to keep those good resolutions of his? 
He had tried so hard to avoid Vivien of late, because he 
knew that he was walking on the edge of a precipice ; 
because he knew that a word, a look might undo the 
work of days of self-repression. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


225 


CHAPTER VI. 

“IN LOVING THEE THOU KNOW’ST I AM FORSWORN.” 

Ormerod went out on the terrace, and glanced quickly 
up and down in search of the stately figure he knew so 
well. He soon espied Vivien advancing toward him 
from the further end of the long terrace. Young Marston 
was at her side, talking with unusual animation. A shade 
of vexation crossed Ormerod ’s face. He halted in some 
hesitation, and watched the pair with eyes in which a 
sudden light kindled. Had Vivien looked up then, and 
met his eyes, she would have read something that would 
have startled her out of the passive calm which had come 
to her as a species of reaction after yesterday’s emotional 
crisis. Whether the revelation would have brought her 
pleasure or pain, who shall say? The influences that 
mold the secret feelings of a woman’s heart are too subtle 
to be justly analyzed. But Vivien’s glance rested on the 
heavy countenance of young Marston, whose attempts at 
conversation she was good-naturedly assisting to the best 
of her power, supplying words when he paused helplessly 
in search of suitable means for expressing his thoughts, 
and piecing together Ijis fragmentary remarks witli such 
kindly taqt that the poor boy was tempted to beg her ac- 
ceptance of his heart and hand there and then. 

“Is it possible she cares to listen to that idiot’s cackle?” 
thought Ormerod, angrily, as he watched them. And 
then lie fell to wondering bitterly what Vivien would 
think if she knew the secret he had shut away in one of 
those mysterious brain-cells where thought is garnered. 
Wuuld she be angry, or vexec^ or merely calmly indiffer- 
ent? It was impossible to say. He knew little of women 
and their moods, but what elementary knowledge he had 
of that most complex subject could not be used as a stand- 
ard whereby to judge a woman like Vivien Lowry. She 
was so unljke other women that he could form no con- 
jecture as to the effect such a revelation would have on 
her. He knew that she was quixotic, that her ideas of 
life were exalted and somewhat visionary, that her nat- 


226 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


ural bent of mind was rather toward self-sacrifice than 
toward selfishness. Once he had thought her cold, but 
he knew better now ; he had seen those deep-gray eyes of 
hers kindle, seen the hot color rush into her cheeks when 
she was strangely moved ; he had heard her speak as no 
cold, impassive woman could speak. No, whatever her 
faults, coldness was not one of them. 

You see, Ormerod had a very limited experience of 
feminine human nature, or he would have known that a 
woman is always lenient to a man who loves her, whether 
she reciprocates the love or not. Vivien, however, was 
ignorant of the whole matter, so all conjectures were 
fruitless as to what she would think and how she would 
act if, in an unguarded moment, he betrayed himself. 

And Sybil, poor child, how painful was his position to- 
ward her ! Man-like, Ormerod was so assured of the poor 
child’s unalterable affection for himself that he honestly 
believed any breach of faith on his part would be a fatal 
blow to her happiness. He had taken literally the pa- 
thetic reproach she had spoken yesterday, and he feared 
that Sybil really began to doubt his love. He had taken 
himself to task on the subject, and gravely tried to resus- 
citate some of the lover-like enthusiasm of a couple of 
months ago. But no, it would not .do ; he could deceive 
himself no longer. He had never really" loved pretty 
Sybil ; he had only liked and admired her. What a fool 
he had been to surrender his liberty ! Why had he not 
waited a reasonable time before he took the decisive step 
of asking the “poor child” to marry him? Why had he 
put an insuperable barrier between himself and Vivien ? 
Had he been a free man, he might have made it the am- 
bition of his life to win her* 

Ever since the truth dawned on him that he had found 
his ideal woman in Vivien Lowry, that the calm, sensi- 
ble affection he had for Sybil was swept away in the 
strong tide of a passionate love for a woman who seemed 
as far above him as the stars in their courses, Ormerod 
had tormented himself with dreams of what might have 
been had he not bartered away his freedom for a vain 
shadow. He had pressed for an earlier day for the mar- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


991 


riage, with a dim sort of idea that things would be easier 
were the irrevocable step once taken. 

“If it were done, ’twere well if ’twere done quickly;” 
the matrimonial chains once riveted, his love for Vivien 
must be conquered. Sybil would be his wife ; a sense of 
honor would compel him to put away this new passion 
as one of the forbidden joys of life. The gulf between 
himself and Vivien would be so wide and deep that the 
very profundity of the chasm would scare him away 
from its verge. Since it had been settled that the wed- 
ding should take place in October, Ormerod had striven 
to trample down and utterly destroy the love- which had 
sprung up in his path like some beautiful flower of magic 
growth. The rich fragrance, the glorious blossoms, were 
only so many temptations to dishonor ; he would destroy 
both without mercy. But his good resolutions availed 
him nothing ; the love-plant, quick of growth as it had 
been, had deep roots ; he could crush it down, but he 
could not annihilate it. The first sight of Vivien’s face, 
the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice when they 
met at Dallas Towers undid the patient work of days ; 
and now he must begin again at the beginning : the work 
of destruction must be done anew. 

Sybil, by sending him on his present errand, had made 
it all the harder for him. Since her arrival at the Tow- 
ers, he had carefully avoided every opportunity of speech 
with Vivien, though he hungered for a word from her 
lips, for a single look from those deep, clear eyes of hers, 
and he hoped that he was really making some progress 
in his self-appointed task. 

But it is one thing to surrender voluntarily a prize 
which is uncoveted by others, and another to see it 
grasped at by some one you think utterly unworthy of 
possessing it. Ormerod had thought it a difficult though 
not impossible thing to resign all hope of winning Vivien ; 
but, when he saw “that lout Marston” obviously laying 
himself out to please her, anger and love had a strong 
tussle together in his heart. He looked at the approach- 
ing pair with strong disapproval written in his face, and 
in his inmost heart was glad that he had a plausible ex- 


228 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


% 

cuse for joining them, and interrupting their tete-a-tete. 
He hesitated no longer, but went boldly forward. 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Lowry,” he said, with rather 
overdone carelessness of manner. ‘ ‘I was sent in search 
of you by Miss Le Marchant, who, I believe, is anxious 
that you should drive with her to Oak Hill Wood. May 
I tell her that you will do so?” 

Vivien colored slightly, but when she spoke her voice 
was quite steady. 

"Certainly. I will come at once.” 

‘She is vexed with me for interrupting her conversa- 
tion with Marston,” was his mental comment on her 
change of countenance, "though what on earth she can 
find to interest her in that unlicked cub passes my com- 
prehension.” 

Ormerod turned and walked by Vivien’s side, while 
the "unlicked cub,” in blissful ignorance of the verdict 
just passed on him, tried to keep the conversational ball 
rolling with tolerable briskness. But without Vivien’s 
aid he felt this task beyond his powers. He wondered 
why she had suddenly subsided into silence ; surely it 
could not be because the presence of that conceited Lon- 
don dandy, who had chosen to join them, made her shy. 
A girl as clever and handsome as Miss Lowry must feel 
herself a match for any man. Perhaps she disliked him 
— girls luckily did not always admire those high and 
mighty fellows, who thought themselves so superior to 
the rest of mankind. 

"And, after all, he didn’t seem so very brilliant,” 
mused young Marston; "why, he hadn’t a word to say 
for himself — he was as mute as a fish. ’ ’ 

The truth was that Ormerod was too angry to talk. He 
knew his anger was unreasonable and altogether unjus- 
tifiable. Of course Miss Lowry had a perfect right to talk 
to young Marston if she pleased. It was no business of 
his. And yet he was angry ; he felt at odds with the 
world, discontented and unhappy. 

Vivien was silent because she distrusted her power of 
self-command ; it was so difficult to talk carelessly on 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


229 


ordinary topics to the man whose presence caused her 
such strange commingling of pleasure and pain. Why 
had she allowed herself to be drawn into this false posi- 
tion? Why had she come to Dallas Towers? The five 
days which remained of her visit — days that must be 
lived through somehow — stretched out before her in a 
dreary perspective. Was there no escape? Must the 
difficult and dangerous path be trodden by her unwilling 
feet? If Ormerod would only go away ! A wild idea 
flashed across her brain that she would appeal to the 
friendship he had professed for her, that she would ask 
him to leave the Towers. 

But, if she did, what reason could she give for such a 
strange request? She pictured the calm surprise with 
which he would listen to her. Would he think her mad? 
Perhaps — and the thought brought a flood of color to her 
cheeks — he might guess her secret. The possibility of 
such a contingency was quite enough to chase away an 
idea so utterly and wildly impracticable. She racked her 
brain for a more feasible way of extricating herself from 
the difficulties which hemmed her in. But in vain; 
every avenue of escape seemed to be closed ; she must stay 
where she was, and bear her burden with a brave face. 

Ormerod, who had been covertly watching the rapid 
changes passing over her face, fell to wondering at the 
cause of her silence and evident trouble ; surely vexation 
for such a trivial thing as an interrupted tete-a-tete with 
a comparative stranger would not wholly account for 
the signs of mental perturbation he read there. Her 
manner, too, puzzled him ; the frank friendliness of for- 
mer days had given place to a cold restraint that bor- 
dered on formality. 

So those two — both harassed with a secret care, both 
conscientiously anxious to do what was right, but both 
isolated within the circle of their own existence— walked 
on, side by side, in utter ignorance of each other’s 
thoughts and motives ; while young Marston, in serene 
unconsciousness of the little drama that was going on 
near him, and though playing a role of no apparent im- 
portance, yet exerted the same negative influence that a 


230 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


non-conductor does between two metals whose contact 
would strike the electric spark. 

The three re-entered the house and joined the rest of 
the party in the Gothic hall. In the brief space of time 
that had elapsed since they left it, both Vivien and Or- 
merod knew that a change had taken place in their mutual 
relations ; that the old footing of cordial friendship could 
never be wholly re-established, and that henceforth a 
barrier of some sort stood between them. How it had 
been reared neither understood, but that it existed both 
felt. 


CHAPTER VII. 

LADY VILLEBOIS IS DIPLOMATIC. 

In pursuance of a course of action she had planned, 
Lady Villebois resolved to turn the day’s amusement to 
some practical use. Ever since she heard Atherstone’s 
story of the fate of the man Jabez Rudd, and watched its 
effect on the usually impassive and self -possessed master 
of the Towers, she had settled it in her own mind that 
Atherstone was the man who held the key of the whole 
mystery. On the previous evening sheliad had no oppor- 
tunity of talking to him, but she hoped that during the 
course of the day she might seize a favorable moment 
for using her conversational weapons to some purpose. 
She felt convinced that the man who died in Denver City 
knew something Le Marchant wished to hide : or why 
had he looked so relieved when Atherstone spoke of Ja- 
bez Rudd’s death? Was it not within the range of possi- 
bility that Rudd had confided to Atherstone some of the 
secrets of his past? At all events it would be worth her 
while to sound him on the subject. 

When the carriages came round to the door — after 
watching with quiet amusement the small maneuvers 
practiced by various young ladies to secure the attend 
ance of the particular swains of their choice, and the 
anxiety of their mammas to appropriate the most com - 
fortable seat in Mrs. Le Marchant’s barouche— Lady 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


231 


Villebois contrived to elude that lady’s eyes, knowing 
that the aforesaid place of honor was destined for herself. 
She had no wish to secure either the luxurious seat or 
Mrs. Le Marchant’s charming society, though as the 
guest of the highest rank both had been allotted to her. 
With secret joy she saw Mrs. Marston take possession 
of the coveted position with a serene majesty of de- 
meanor calculated to defy all attempts to dislodge her 
therefrom. 

“Delightful woman! I am forever grateful to you,” 
mentally ejaculated her ladyship. “Now to secure that 
charming Mr. Atherstone. I am an old woman and my 
wits are not so nimble as they once were, but I think I 
can amuse him enough to escape being thought a bore.” 

Her quick eyes roved eagerly about in search of Ralph’s 
tall, solid form. As she glanced round the hall, she saw 
Vivien enter, with Ormerod and young Marston, and 
make her way to Sybil, who was sitting on one of the low 
divans chatting away in her liveliest manner to the very 
man Lady Villebois sought. 

“How provoking ! that little coquette is evidently bent 
on fascinating Mr. Atherstone, and judging from his face 
he seems to like the process.” 

With her usual acuteness she had guessed rightly. 
Atherstone looked radiant, and seemed bent on keeping 
his position at Sybil’s side. But that impulsive young 
lady, catching sight of Vivien, jumped up and ran to her 
friend leaving poor Atherstone looking somewhat crest- 
fallen. 

“Oh, I am so glad you have not started,” che sr\V 
clasping Vivien’s arm affectionately : "'come along, Ve- 
lix, and we four will have the landau all to ourselves. I 
know both the wagonettes are full.” 

Sybil glanced carelessly toward young Marston— pre- 
sumably he was to make the fourth ; she had secured the 
two people she wanted, namely, Vivien and Ormerod ; as 
some one must occupy the vacant seat, he would do as 
well as anyone. Ralph’s sunburned faced flushed angrily 
as he turned away. 


232 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Lady Villebois saw her opportunity, and seized it ea- 
gerly. 

“Oh, Mr. Atlierstone,” she said, coming up to him 
smiling, “will you take compassion on a neglected old 
woman? Here I am left to my own devices. Those self- 
ish girls have gone off without troubling their foolish 
young heads about me. Will you drive me in the ponv- 
phaeton, if it hasn’t been 'annexed’ by somebody?’’ 

“I shall be delighted,” answered Atherstone, his brow 
clearing as his eyes rested on the speaker’s beautiful face 
— for it was a beautiful face still in spite of her seventy 
years. He gave her his arm and led her to the entrance 
just as the landau and its four occupants drove off. Ath- 
erstone cast one wistful glance after it, and then, shaking- 
off his disappointment like a sensible fellow as he was, 
went in search of the pony-phaeton. Luckily it was not 
far off, and one of the men brought it round at once. 

“ What a piece of good luck !” thought her ladyship, as 
they bowled smoothly down the avenue. “1 have got 
my man to myself for an hour at least, and he can’t get 
away from me. ’ ’ 

She was far too diplomatic to open the campaign at 
once. She had plenty to talk about; and, as she ex- 
pressed it, her tongue always preferred the active to the 
passive mood. With her the art of conversation really 
was an art — an art to which the pen can never do ade- 
quate justice. The inflection of tone which lends addi- 
tional piquancy to a quaint turn of thought, the bright 
glance which points wit, and the mobility of expression 
which adds a thousand-fold to the meaning of both are 
lost. It is the difference between a photograph and one 
of Vicat Cole’s chefs-d'oeuvre; both render the features 
of the landscape with precision, but one lacks the expres- 
sion of color, of life, while the other puts before you the 
whole magic beauty of the scene with a vividness second 
only to that of nature. 

Let any one who doubts the difference between written 
and spoken dialogue, read through “Much Ado about 
Nothing,” and then go to the Lyceum and see Mr. Irving 
and Miss Ellen Terry act it. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


233 


In five minutes Lady Villebois succeeded in banishing 
the clouds from Atherstone’s mental horizon. At first 
he listened to her simply out of politeness, but soon with 
unfeigned pleasure and interest. A woman who has lived 
for more than fifty years in a society that included most 
of the celebrities in the political, artistic, and literary 
worlds, who has the essentially feminine gift of observa- 
tion and quick intuition, and who has a memory suf- 
ficiently retentive to garner up the precious residuum of 
varied information which a long experience of life leaves 
behind it, is a woman emphatically worth listening to. 
Lady Villebois, however, did not talk merely for the 
pleasure of talking ; and, alas for the fallibility of poor 
human nature ! — her object in making herself agreeable 
to Atherstone was not the praiseworthy one of consoling 
him under the disappointment of Miss Sybil’s cavalier 
conduct. Her motive was simply to lead up to the sub- 
ject of Atherstone’s American adventures. When she 
thought the ground fairly well cleared for the first diplo- 
matic skirmish, she began cautiously in the approved 
manner and with a perfect assumption of carelessness. 

“You have been a great traveler, I believe, Mr. Ather- 
stone?” 

“Well, yes, I have traveled a few miles, though I 
should hardly venture to call myself a great traveler. No 
man can nowadays, unless he has done a walking-tour in 
Thibet, or explored the interior of Africa, or climbed the 
Andes, or performed some sensational feat of the sort.” 

“But I thought I heard you speak of America, Japan, 
and one or two places rather out of the beaten track. 
Why don’t you write a book about your travels?” 

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the other, fervently, “I 
am not ambitious to add my mite to the mountain of 
books of travel written by amateur authors. Why, the 
shelves of some publishers must groan under the piles of 
unread volumes which cumber them !” 

“Then write a novel— as a peg to hang your experiences 
on. Every one reads novels ; they are the mental pabu- 
lum of social life.” 


234 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“If I did, it would never attain the dignity of print.” 
replied Atherstone, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Oh, yes, it would, if you followed one or two hints 
which I will give you.” 

“Then, why not write the novel yourself?” 

“I ! Oh, no, my dear Mr. Atherstone, I am too old and 
too lazy. I prefer the role of critic ; it is so much easier. 
But I don’t object to play the part of literary mentor ; I 
am ready to give you any amount of advice.” 

“Thank you,” said Atherstone, dryly. 

‘ ‘I can only briefly suggest ideas ; I leave it to you to 
develop them. You might have a hoyden heroine — that 
is always pleasing to a very large class of readers. At 
first she should be gauche, and not too good-looking ; later 
she must develop into a paragon of beauty. Then your 
hero must be a slangy man, with a partiality for a meer- 
schaum, and the manners of a bear. Your heroine must 
be discovered in the first chapter, in any extraordinary 
position you like, swinging on a five-barred gate, perched 
on a wall, or asleep in a gnarled old apple-tree. If the 
hero is a married man, all the better — a married-man 
lover is a sure card in a novelist’s hand. Or, if you pre- 
fer it, go in for the pseudo-French school of sensational 
realism, or write a medico psychico-criminal novel, in 
which the hero or heroine is alternately sane and insane, 
guilty and innocent. What do you say to this recipe for 
the concoction of one of these triumphs of artistic skill? 
Take one mad- woman, one dark and gloomy misanthrope, 
one or two villains, according to taste, several cuttings 
from the Police News , and one or two excerpts from the 
Newgate Calendar ; mix up with a light froth of love- 
making, stir in a short extract from the Lancet, and 
serve quickly. I think it would hit the public taste. ’ ' 

Atherstone laughed. 

“You are rather hard on novel-writers, Lady Villebois. 
Remember the demand insures the supply. If books of 
that class were not read and admired, assuredly they 
would not be written.” 

“I sit reproved. But to return to the subject of your 
novel. Seriously, you might write a very good one if 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


235 


you drew the plot from your own experience. For in- 
stance,” she went on, firing her first volley boldly, “that 
story you told us yesterday at luncheon would make an 
excellent foundation on which to rear a superstructure 
of sensational incident. Jabez Rudd — that was the ex- 
solicitor’s name, I think — of course he must be the vil- 
lain of your book, or, better still, the tool of a greater vil- 
lain.” This was a shot fired at random, and Lady Ville- 
bois’ blue eyes looked quickly and keenly at Atherstone. 
No change of expression passed over his face. She was at a 
loss to know whether the chance shot had found its billet. 

“I daresay, though,” she continued, carelessly, “the 
man’s real history would form a more thrilling romance 
than anything you and I could evolve from our inner 
consciousness. Fact is ever so much stranger than fic- 
tion, and I daresay if you happened to know the true 
story of Jabez Rudd, and really embodied it in a novel, 
people would call it overdrawn and improbable.” 

“And yourself among the number,” remarked Ather- 
stone, dryly. 

“Well hit! again I acknowledge that I sit corrected. 
But, seriously,” she said, abruptly changing her tactics 
for a more direct method of attack, “I will be quite frank 
with you, Mr. Atherstone. I really have a reason for ask- 
ing you to tell me what you know of this man Rudd. ’ ’ 

Atherstone looked considerably astonished at this sudden 
change from levity to sober earnestness. 

“I really have nothing of importance to tell,” he re- 
plied, slowly. “At one time Rudd confided a good deal 
of his past history to me, but he usually confined himself 
to anecdotes about the men and women he had met in 
various places. If he did happen to talk about himself, 
I noticed that he was always especially cautious, and 
that he never mentioned names of people or of localities. ” 

“He did not tell you then what was the reason of his 
enforced withdrawal from England?” 

“No; but I gathered that it was not a very creditable 
affair. He always managed to ledd the conversation 
away from the subject, and I naturally shrank from pry- 
ing into what did not concern me.” 


236 


LIKE LUCTFER. 


“Then you really know nothing more about him? You 
have no clpw whatever to his secret? That he had a se- 
cret seems certain, or he would not have been so reserved 
with one who befriended him in a strange land.” 

“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Atherstone, hesitat- 
ingly, “I have some sort of clew, but I came by it under 
peculiar circumstances, and — in short, I do not care to 
repeat what I know,” he added, bluntly. 

“But the man is dead; he is beyond the reach of 
harm,” urged Lady Villebois, eagerly. “Are you not a 
little overscrupulous, Mr. Atherstone?” 

“Perhaps so; but when I tell you that I learned what 
little I know from Rudd’s delirious ravings — ” 

“And when I tell you that by hiding what you know 
you maybe seriously hindering the course of justice!” 
interrupted the other, impressively. 

“Are you serious, Lady Villebois?” 

He turned and looked at her with his keenest glance, 
but she did not flinch. 

“Indeed, I am,” she said, gravely; then, as if obeying 
a sudden inspiration, she went on quickly, “Mr. Ather- 
stone, though you are almost a stranger to me, I am 
tempted to confide a very important matter to you. ’ ’ 

Atherstone murmured something about the honor she 
did him, but he looked somewhat taken aback by her im- 
pulsiveness. 

“Are you an old friend of Mr. Le Marchant?” she 
asked, abruptly. 

Atherstone looked thoroughly astonished at the sud- 
denness and seeming irrelevancy of the question. 

“No; at least — ” 

,He stopped in some embarrassment. Mr. Le Marchant 
had apparently forgotten all about their previous ac- 
quaintance five years ago, and Atherstone, partly be- 
cause he hated any reference to his brief medical career, 
and partly because the matter seemed too trivial to men- 
tion, had not thought it necessary to remind him of it. 

“Why do you hesitate?” inquired Lady Villebois, 
eagerly. “I only asked you a very simple question.” 

“I met Mr. Le Marchant some five years ago in Lon- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


237 

don ; but, I think, on one occasion only. As he appeared 
to have forgotten all about me — ” 

“Are you sure of that?” interrupted her ladyship, 
suspiciously. “It strikes me that Mr. Le Marchant is not 
a man who would forget easily. ’ ’ 

“Oh ! I daresay he would not think it worth while to 
remember me,” he said, with a touch of bitterness. “I 
was only a struggling doctor then.” 

“A doctor ! Were you ever a doctor, Mr. Atherstone?” 

“Yes, an unsuccessful one.” 

Lady Villebois was silent for some minutes ; she was 
puzzling out this new phase in the mystery. It seemed 
that by a lucky chance she had hit on the very man she 
wanted. She decided on making a bold stroke. 

“You say you met Mr. Le Marchant five years ago; 
did you ever see his uncle, the late Mr. Dallas?” 

“He was my patient — that is, he was my partner’s pa- 
tient; I only attended Mr. Dallas once.” 

The color flushed all over Lady Villebois’ face. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, clasping both her hands on the 
other’s arm — a gesture that nearly resulted in a catastro- 
phe ; for, in his surprise, Atherstone dropped the reins, 
and the ponies, startled out of their usual self-possession, 
showed symptoms of bolting. 

“Sit still !” he cried, authoritatively, as Lady Villebois, 
possessed with the essentially feminine idea that it is better 
to jump out of a vehicle than to be thrown out of it, was 
preparing to act accordingly. “You are quite safe where 
you are.” 

In less time than it takes to write it, he had the reins 
securely in his grasp, and the ponies, with remarkable 
good sense, relinquished all notion of running away when 
they felt his firm grip. 

Lady Villebois, the danger over, felt rather ashamed 
of her want of presence of mind. She tried to persuade 
herself that surprise at what Atherstone had told her had 
as much to do with her discomfiture as fear for her per- 
sonal safety. She returned at once to the charge. 

“I want you to tell me as much as you can about Mr. 
Dallas,” she said, bending her blue eyes with a keen 


238 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


glance on the other’s face. “I do not ask you to do this 
simply to gratify my curiosity.” 

Atherstone was silent, and Lady Villebois went on : 

“Just now I said I was inclined to trust you with a 
matter of grave import. I am resolved to yield to the in- 
clination. But first I must tell you that Miss Lowry — ” 

“Yes?” he said, eagerly, as Lady Villebois paused. 
“What has Miss Lowry to do with the matter?” 

“Miss Lowry is the granddaughter of your former pa- 
tient, Mr. Dallas — her mother was his only child.” 

“Then why — ?” 

“Why did she not inherit his property? Because Mr. 
Le Marchant tricked her out of it. ’ ’ 

Having made her grand coup, her ladyship paused to 
watch its effect on her companion. 

“That is a very serious charge to bring against him, 
Lady Villebois,” said Ralph, knitting his brows with a 
troubled air. 

“It is. You may be sure it is not lightly made,” she 
answered, gravely. “I want you to help me to prove it — 
or disprove it. ’ ’ 

“I — how can I help you?” 

“By telling me all you can about Mr. Dallas’ last ill- 
ness. ’ ’ 

Atherstone looked uncomfortable. His color rose, and 
his eyes grew troubled. 

“I don’t like talking about my former patients ; it sa- 
vors of meanness.” 

“Not in this case,” said Lady Villebois, quickly and 
impatiently. “If you knew all the circumstances, you 
would think as I do— that the end justifies the means.” 

“Is not that rather a dangerous doctrine?” 

“I don’t want to discuss the question,” she retorted, 
with added impatience. “Listen to me for five minutes, 
Mr. Atherstone, and lam sure you will take my view of 
the case. ’ ’ 

Lady Villebois briefly narrated Catherine Dallas’ story, 
and then went on to tell him of Vivien’s early struggles, 
and her own suspicions about Le Marchant. Atherstone 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


239 


listened in silence ; but, when she had finished, he turned 
toward her, and said, in a low voice : 

“You have placed me in a very painful position. The 
fact of my being Mr. Le Marchant’s guest renders it 
doubly painful.” 

“It cannot be helped,” she retorted, with a touch of 
irritation in her tone. “I am exactly in the same posi- 
tion myself ; but, as I said just now, the end justifies the 
means. If my suspicions of Mr. Le Marchant are without 
foundation, I shall be the first to make the amende hon- 
orable. But, as Miss Lowry’s friend, I feel it incumbent 
upon me to pursue this matter to the end. Will you help 
me, Mr. Atherstone?” 

“I will think the matter over,” Atherstone answered, 
slowly. “I must have time to consider all that promise 
might involve.” 

“You are very cautious,” she remarked, with a touch 
of irony. “But no doubt you are right. Do not, however, 
keep me long in suspense. If you can, find an opportunity 
of speaking to me later on in the day.” 

Atherstone bowed his head in assent. 

Lady Villebois having so far been successful in her di- 
plomacy, allowed him to fall into a brown study, which 
lasted until they arrived at their destination. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SIR BEVIS’ OAK. 

Oak Hill Wood had several characteristics to dis- 
tinguish it from other woods in the neighborhood. The 
low hill which rose in its center was bare of trees save on 
the summit, where a solitary oak reared its stately head 
in defiance of autumn storms and winter snows. That 
ancient tree, according to local tradition, had witnessed 
an unhallowed compact between the Evil One and a des- 
perate wretch who had bartered away his soul for gold. 

Sybil had been narrating the legend to her three com- 
panions in the landau, and they were still discussing it, 
with mock gravity, as they walked through the wood. 


240 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“You see.” remarked Miss Le Marchant, naively, “he 
wanted money so dreadfully, poor man.” 

“Most of us do,” put in Atherstone, who had joined 
them as soon as he saw Lady Villebois engaged in con- 
versation with her hostess. Mrs. Le Marchant was mak- 
ing polite excuses about the barouche — excuses her lady- 
ship listened to with a gleam of amusement lurking at 
the corners of her expressive mouth. 

“But he need not have gone to such desperate .lengths, ” 
said Vivien, smiling. 

“ ‘Diseases desperate grown, by desperate appliance 
are relieved,’ ” returned Atherstone, dryly. 

“All these legends are in a manner typical,” said Or- 
merod, thoughtfully. “Have not men sold their souls for 
gold in all ages? Why, it is done now every day.” 

“Well, I don’t blame Sir Bevis half so much,” Sybil 
declared, “because he wanted the money for such a good 
purpose.” 

“What was that?” asked Atherstone, who had not 
heard the^beginning of the story. 

“Sir Bevis sold his soul to the powers of evil for a sum 
of money to save the girl he loved from marrying some 
wicked old baron — I fprget his name. Her parents were 
very poor and the baron was very rich.” 

“I think we hear of parallel cases even in this immac- 
ulate nineteenth century,” Atherstone remarked, paren- 
thetically. 

“Before the wedding-day,” went on Sybil, ignoring 
the interruption, “Sir Bevis appeared with a whole ret- 
inue of followers at the castle where the parents of the 
fair Yolande dwelt. He w T as dressed magnificently, and 
mounted on a noble charger, and, what was more to the 
point, he laid a heavy bag of gold at their feet as an 
earnest of the sum he meant to bestow on them in ex- 
change for their daughter’s hand. Mr. Atherstone,” ex- 
claimed Sybil, breaking off abruptly, “you are smiling a 
smile of incredulity. Unless I see you in a more serious 
frame of mind, I decline to tell you the rest of the legend. ’ ’ 

The path through the wood was somewhat narrow. 
Atherstone and Sybil unconsciously slackened their pace 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


9J 1 
/O'x.L 

while Ormerod and Vivien walked on side by side under 
the overarching trees, talking so earnestly that they 
seemed quite oblivious of the other two. It had at last 
penetrated to the mind of young Marston that he was de 
trap, and, though he cast regretful glances after Vivien’s 
vanishing figure, he was fain to mutter some lame excuse 
to Miss Le Marchant, and efface himself with all speed. 

Atherstone looked at his companion’s bright face and 
smiled again. 

“You misunderstand me completely, Miss Le Marchant. 

I confess to the smile, but I deny its incredulity. The 
legend of Sir Bevis and the fair Yolande is extremely in- 
teresting, and I have no doubt contains the usual germ of 
truth. Pray, let me hear the end of it. ’ ’ 

Thus adjured, Sybil proceeded : 

“Yolande ’s parents at first doubted the genuineness of 
Sir Bevis’ wealth ; but when more bags of gold were pro- 
duced, and they were allowed to handle the broad shining 
pieces, amazement took the place of incredulity. The 
knight declared that not only would he give the sum 
promised by the baron, but that he would double it if his 
marriage with Yolande might be celebrated on the mor- 
row. After a little demur, the bargain was concluded, 
and Sir Bevis and his bride departed to the castle the for- 
mer had purchased with a portion of his ill-gotten wealth. 

“Ah, money is a powerful lever,” said Atherstone, 
with a half sigh. 

“I daresay; but it can’t make people happy,” asserted 
Sybil, with the confident tone of one who has never 
known the want of the despised commodity. 

“Perhaps not; but the lack of it sometimes makes peo- 
ple less happy than they might otherwise be, ” observed 
Atherstone, dryly. 

“Perhaps,” said Sybil, doubtfully. The contingency 
of possible poverty was not one she had hitherto contem- 
plated, 

“Then you don’t care for great wealth. Miss Le Mar- 
chant?” asked Atherstone, looking her keenly in the face. 
“You could be happy with only moderate means?” 

He was thinking of what might be the result of the in- 


242 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


quiry Lady Villebois had set on foot; thinking of the 
part he might be called on to play in the drama that must 
be enacted shortly ; thinking of the trouble that threat- 
ened to darken this fair girl’s life. 

“Thank God, she has Ormerodto look to for protection 
in the coming storm !” he thought, as he looked at her. 

He was again conscious of a certain bitter disappoint- 
ment that sometimes rose like a mist between him and 
Sybil’s bright young face. 

“You do not care for great wealth?” he repeated, more 
earnestly. 

“N — o,” said Sybil, hesitating slightly; “but I shouldn’t 
like to be poor. ’ ’ 

“Of course not. It is not a pleasant experience — 
though sometimes a salutary one. But, Miss Le Mar- 
chant,” he added, in a lighter tone, “I have not heard 
what became of Sir Bevis and his bride.” 

“Oh,” said Sybil, briskly, “the story ends tragically. 
Sir Bevis died within a year of his marriage, and then — ” 

“The terms of the compact were carried out to the let- 
ter?” 

“Yes.” 

“And the fair Yolande — what became of her?” 

“She entered a nunnery, and died a few months after 
her husband. ’ ’ 

“A nunnery seems to be the favorite refuge for broken- 
hearted ladies of all ages, and in all ages,” laughed Ath- 
erstone, as they emerged from the belt of woodland 
which encircled Oak Hill. 

Under the brilliant, blue August sky, the hill, crowned 
with its legendary oak— a very Methuselah of a tree, for 
it had braved the blasts of four hundred winters— did not 
look at all a suitable place for any transactions of a dia- 
bolic nature. A light breeze rippled the “leafy tide of 
greenery” which laved the base of the hill. Large, fleecy- 
white clouds sailed across the azure breadths of sky, tak- 
ing fantastic shapes as they sped on toward the sea. 

Vivien and Ormerod had already climbed to the sum- 
mit of the hill, and were standing together by the mass- 
ive trunk of the grand old tree. During their walk 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


243 


through the wood, they had been talking with something 
of the freedom of former days. Ormerod, having grad- 
uated in the social university, knew how to use the 
worldly wisdom he had learned there to the best advan- 
tage. Self-restraint is one of the best lessons taught in 
that mundane Alma Mater, and Ormerod resolutely set 
himself to talk to Vivien without betraying the change 
that had taken place in his feelings toward her. What 
Vivien lacked in savoir-faire, she made up for in femi- 
nine tact. She saw that he was trying to re-establish 
their friendship on the old footing, and she tried her best 
to talk naturally on the subjects that had once been of 
mutual interest to them. 

He was full of some new plans for improving the homes 
of the working-classes ; and there were many points on 
which he wished to ask her advice. Vivien’s experience 
of the dark side of London life was infinitely greater 
than his own. He had a mere surface knowledge of its 
misery, while she had been steeped to the lips in the bit- 
ter waters of poverty. He could hardly realize that it 
was so, as he listened to the pure, refined tones of her 
voice, and mentally contrasted her simple but correct 
English with the slangy, slip-shod vocabulary of so many 
girls in society. It seemed hardly credible that this no- 
ble-looking woman, with her grand face and unconscious 
dignity of carriage, had once lived and worked in a mean 
little shop in Camberwell. He knew nothing of her story 
beyond the facts he bad narrated to Sybil and her mother 
in the drawing-room at Dallas Towers three months ago, 
save that his betrothed had laughingly told him that Viv- 
ien was a “distant cousin of papa’s.” He had, however, 
paid little attention to this statement, thinking it highly 
probable that the relationship was simply a figment of 
Sybil’s brain. He was, of course, entirely ignorant of the 
network of schemes Lady Villebois was weaving round 
Le Marchant. 

Atherstone, being naturally of a reserved temperament, 
had not confided to him how far he was mixed up in cer- 
tain past episodes in Le Marchant ’s life. Indeed, there 
had been few opportunities of private conversation be- 


244 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


tween the two men since Atherstone’s unexpected ap- 
pearance in the neighborhood. 

As they stood together under the spreading boughs of 
Sir Bevis’ oak, a dream-like memory floated through her 
brain of two parallel scenes in her life. Under the broad 
shade of the cedar-tree on the lawn at Rollestone House 
she and Ormerod had first met ; under the protecting 
shadow of the elm in Dallas Park she had lived through 
the bitter hour when she probed her own heart, and 
found what was hidden there. That momentary flash of 
memory filled her with a vague foreboding ; she dreaded 
she knew not what. This half-hour’s talk with Ormerod 
had been perilously sweet to her, but she knew that such 
glimpses of happiness would only make the future seem 
more gloomy. 

“If I only could get away from the Towers!” she 
thought for the hundredth time. If she could get away 
from the Towers, it seemed to her that the worst of her 
troubles would be smoothed away. Her eyes were fixed 
dreamily on the wide landscape spread out at her feet. 
Ormerod was watching her with some curiosity ; there 
was a wistful expression in her eyes he had never seen 
there before, the sweet serenity that characterized her 
seemed troubled. 

“I fear I have wearied you with these plans of mine,” 
he said, after a pause. “All this talk about the poor, 
their struggles and sorrows, is hardly a lively topic. Do 
forgive me, Miss Lowry, for casting a gloom on your first 
picnic.” 

Vivien turned at the sound of his voice, and a sudden 
warmth of color swept over her face. 

“You have not wearied me.” 

She was so accustomed to speak quite frankly that, 
even though her heart was full of trouble and vague un- 
rest, the old habit of perfect candor asserted itself. 

“I am glad of that,” said Ormerod, his face lighting up. 
“There are so many things I want to talk to you about,” 
he went on, eagerly. 

All his good resolutions about keeping away from Viv- 
ien had melted into thin air now that he was under the 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


245 


spell of her presence. Like a man who has been long 
condemned to live in a dark, narrow cell where the sun 
never enters, he forgot everything in the joy of feeling 
the gracious warmth of its beams. Why should he not 
enjoy the present moment? Why should he not be happy 
for a few hours? Why should he not bask in the sunshine 
of her presence? By-and-by, when the dark days of 
winter came, it would be something to have the memory 
of this one day of warmth and light and happiness. He 
meant to marry Sybil, meant to do his best to conquer 
his love for Vivien ; but a sudden recklessness had come 
over him. He wanted to be happy for one day. The cold 
reserve he had so carefully wrapped about him of late 
was thrown aside, and, when Sybil and Atherstone 
climbed the hill, the latter was somewhat puzzled at the 
sudden change in his friend’s manner. There was a light 
in Ormerod’s eyes he had never seen before, a look of al- 
most defiant happiness in his face. 

“Where are all the others?” said Sybil, glancing down 
the grassy slope, “we four seem to be monarchs of all we 
survey. I am getting hungry, aren’t you, Felix? I sug- 
gested having lunch up here under Sir Be vis’ oak, but 
mamma would not hear of it ; she said it would kill her 
to walk up this hill, so I believe we are to eat our lunch- 
eon in a clearing down there in the wood.” 

“Under the shadow of Sir Bevis’ oak, how can you 
talk of such a mundane thing as luncheon? As to the 
idea of eating it— why, it is simply profane,” said Ather- 
stone, laughing. 

“Oh, romance is all very well in its way, but—” 

“But it is a bad substitute for lobster-salad and cold 
chicken— to say nothing of champagne.” 

“I was not going to say that,” retorted Sybil, “though 
there is some amount of truth in what you say. But,” 
she went on, gayly, “we will devote half an hour to Sir 
Bevis and romance, before the prosaic business of lunch- 
eon.” 

“You are admiring the view, I see, Miss Lowry,” said 
Ralph, going up to Vivien. She had not spoken since he 
and Sybil had made their appearance on the scene ; her 


246 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


eyes looked out at the distant range of hills which 
bounded the horizon, but there was a perceptible quiver 
of emotion about her expressive mouth, as though some 
strong feeling had lately stirred her. Since he had 
gleaned from Lady Villebois some events of the strange 
history of her girlhood, Atherstone was more interested 
in her than ever. 

"She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” 
he thought, as he looked at her. "I am sure she has a 
noble nature. Curious that I should hold in my hand — ” 

"It is a very beautiful view,” said Vivien, interrupt- 
ing his musings. “Look at the shadows the clouds are 
making on those hills. I think I understand now what 
writers mean when they speak of a smiling landscape. 
When the clouds flit over the sky, the shadows and the 
sunlight seem to give expression to the hills and the 
woods, and they really seem to smile as the shadows pass 
away.” 

"If you think this simple English landscape so beauti- 
ful, what would you say to the magnificent distances one 
gets in America?” 

"I might not be able to grasp their beauty, and under- 
stand and love it as I do this. In the face of all that 
grandeur, one must stand in wonder and awe. Why, 
even to read of it is a thrilling experience !” 

"If you have that sort of feeling about Nature, you 
ought to be an artist, Miss Lowry,” said Ralph. 

"My father was,” Vivien answered, quietly; "perhaps 
there are some hereditary instincts of Art latent in me. 
But I think most town-bred people like myself love Nat- 
ure. You see, it has always been a sort of beautiful ab- 
straction to us, something to dream about— a sort of 
fairy-land of perpetual sunshine and flowers. When I 
was a child, I used to think that it was only in towns 
that sorrow came ; that life must be smooth always to 
people who lived among fields and woods.” 

"A romantic fallacy. There is just as much unhappiness 
and unrest, if there is less actual want, in the country— 
though the lot of a day-laborer with a wife, a dozen chil- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


24 ? 

dren, and an income of twelve shillings a week is not ex- 
actly to be envied. ’ ’ 

“Ah, but the poorest countryman has this advantage 
over a Londoner : he lives among beautiful surroundings ; 
he breathes pure air, and he has always the wide sky to 
look at. ’ ’ 

“Advantages, I fear, he has little heart to appreciate. 
For my part, I should stagnate in the country. Give me 
the fuller life of cities. Men and women are a thousand- 
fold more interesting than trees and fields.” 

“Mr. Atherstone! I want to show you the exact spot 
where tradition says Sir Bevis made that wicked bar- 
gain,” cried Sybil, in her clear, bird-like tones. “Felix 
will not get up the proper amount of interest in the sub- 
ject.” 

“Now, Miss Lowry, we must take a leap backward 
from this matter-of-fact nineteenth century to the ro- 
mantic fifteenth,” laughed Atherstone, as they joined 
Sybil and Ormerod. The latter was looking distrait and 
just a little bored. “I wonder which had the harder 
time of it : the feudal retainer of the good old days, or 
the under-fed, under-paid laborer of to-day?” 


CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. MARSTON’S STRATAGEM. 

The picnic passed off with considerable eclat. The 
younger guests agreed that it was a complete success ; 
the elders, if they objected to running the risk of future 
rheumatism by eating their luncheon on an extemporized 
table under the open sky instead of in a comfortable din- 
ing-room, bore it in smiling silence and congratulated 
Mrs. Le Marchant on the excellence of all her arrange- 
ments. 

“You couldn’t have chosen a prettier spot, dear Mrs. 
Le Marchant,” said Mrs. Marston, glancing approvingly 
at the stretch of emerald turf zoned about with large 
trees which threw a pleasant shade on the open glade, 


248 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


where the long table, with its dainty arrangement of 
fruit and flowers and delicate fare, made a pretty picture 
against the leafy background. A tiny brook tinkled over 
its pebbly bed near by, mingling its low music with the 
gay laughter of the girls and the popping of champagne 
corks. “I don’t care for picnics, as a rule,” she went on, 
with the uncompromising frankness of speech on which 
she prided herself, “but this is really charming." 

Mrs. Marston’s enjoyment was not marred, as on the 
previous evening, by any anxiety about her son. Mount- 
cashel Marston was seated at some distance from Miss 
Lowry, between a portly matron of fifty and an inof- 
fensive young lady with straw-colored hair and vacant 
blue eyes, whose conversational powers were distinctly 
limited. 

“I am so glad the day is fine,” observed Mrs. Le Mar- 
cliant, arranging the knot of crimson roses at her throat ; 
“there is generally a difficulty about the weather on 
these occasions,” she added, as though the elements were 
adverse powers that had to be conciliated. 

“Yes, indeed. I was once at a picnic where we had to 
eat our luncheon under umbrellas ; and half the party 
were laid up with colds the next day.” 

“How unfortunate !” 

“Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow ; 

Sweet air blow soft ; mount larks aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow ! 

Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I’ll borrow ; 

Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing. 

To give my love good-morrow. ’ ’ 

A burst of song came from a neighboring thicket, and 
stopped the hum of conversation. Mrs. Le Marchant had 
telegraphed to London on the previous day and secured 
the services of a choir of madrigal singers. 

“What a pretty surprise !” “How charming !” “Quite 
idyllic!” chorused every one, when the quaint old ditty 
was concluded. 

“What a happy thought,” said Atherstone to Sybil. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


249 


' ‘I am glacl you think so, because I suggested it to 
mamma,” she answered, with a blush and a smile. 

The well-drilled footmen flitted in and out among the 
trees waiting on the guests as noiselessly and as efficiently 
as though the sylvan banquet were in progress in the 
dining-room at the Towers. Perhaps under those pow- 
dered wigs lurked a feeling of indulgent contempt for the 
people they served. Who knows? The parliament 
which sits in the servants’ hall to criticise our actions and 
discuss our motives is no doubt severer in its verdict than 
we think. The lofty soul of Jeames de la Pluche must 
despise such frivolities as picnics, and doubtless he looks 
on people who indulge in such mild dissipation as stupid 
creatures who are foolishly contented with such a poor 
make-believe of festivity. 

The glee-singers sang their songs under the green shade, 
and the birds, who had never heard such a grand concert 
before, twittered among the leaves, but whether they ap- 
proved this invasion of their solitude and sanctioned this 
extraordinary usurpation of their ancient manorial 
rights is doubtful. They chirped inquiries to each other, 
and peeped down with bright black eyes at the intruders ; 
and then one bolder than the rest fluttered down to get a 
better view of the proceedings. Oak Hill Wood was 
usually a very quiet place, and such inroads were of rare 
occurrence. The day of Mrs. Le Marchant’s picnic was 
one to be marked with a white stone in the birds’ calen- 
dar. 

To Vivien the whole scene was new and delightful. That 
Arcadian repast under the summer sky, with the breeze 
whispering among the leaves, the low babble of the brook 
as it stole on to join the distant river, the bursts of music 
from the hidden glee-singers was like a glimpse into a 
brighter world. The doubts and fears of the early morn- 
ing had vanished. Perhaps she enjoyed the passing mo- 
ment with keener zest because of the sorrow that had 
preceded it. Youth soon feels the rebound, and a girl’s 
heart is seldom dead to the bright influences of sunshine 
and laughter and music. It is possible that, over and 
above all this, Ormerod’s presence at her side had some- 


250 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


thing to do with the joyousness that filled her being. The 
coldness and reserve of his manner had vanished com- 
pletely. He talked and laughed and seemed quite a dif- 
ferent being from the silent, distrait, and somewhat 
gloomy Ormerod of the previous evening. Atherstone, 
who had always looked on his friend as a good fellow^ 
though overmuch given to the study of blue-books and 
other dry political details, was quite astonished at this 
new phase in his character. But he put down the im- 
provement entirely to Sybil’s influence. That bright lit- 
tle fairy, he thought, would have power to make a stoic 
smile. 

Poor Atherstone ! his heart had soon surrendered to 
pretty Sybil’s innocent coquetries. His love for her was 
very unselfish, very tender, and quite hopeless. From 
the first he knew that there was no chance for him. Sybil 
was going to marry Ormerod, and besides, what charm 
had a sober, almost middle-aged man with a pretty girl 
of eighteen? Atherstone was only thirty-three, but early 
acquaintance with disappointment made him look con- 
siderably older than his years. 

No, he told himself, sadly but without bitterness, it 
would never have done. He had been a rolling stone all 
his life, and had gathered no moss to make a nest for 
pretty Sybil. Even if she had not been an heiress he 
would never have had a chance. Well, there was no 
harm in his loving her. Ormerod himself could not ob- 
ject to that, even if he knew — though he did not, and 
never would. He would love her all his life. Does not 
Tennyson, the poet-sage, say that it is better to have 
loved and lost than never to have loved at all? 

Atherstone smothered a sigh and turned to answer some 
trivial remark made by a young lady who sat on his left. 

After luncheon the guests dispersed, some to climb the 
oak-crowned hill, and indulge in speculative disquisitions 
on the legend of Sir Bevis ; some to drive to the ruins of 
a neighboring abbey ; some— and among these were Sybil, 
Atherstone, and most of the young men and maidens— 
proposed driving over in a wagonette to pay a visit to a 
gypsy encampment on Crays-nest Common. All were to 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


251 


reassemble at six o’clock for afternoon tea, and at dusk 
the carriages would start from Oak Hill Wood so as to 
reach the Towers in time for dinner. The day’s festiv- 
ities would wind up with an impromptu dance in the 
Gothic hall. Sybil had suggested the last item in the 
programme, and Mrs. Le Marchant had languidly, 
though reluctantly, acquiesced in the plan. 

It has been said that Mrs. Marston had noted with 
much uneasiness how strongly her son had been attracted 
by Miss Lowry. At the conclusion of luncheon, when 
people were standing about in knots of two or three, dis- 
cussing their plans for the afternoon, that worthy matron 
saw with deep vexation that the infatuated Mountcashel 
was hovering about Vivien with the evident intention of 
forming one of whatever party she elected to join. Mrs. 
Marston at once determined to circumvent the projects 
of her son. It was intolerable that he should presume to 
run contrary to her wishes : she had contrived to whisper 
a caution to him before luncheon, but he told her sullenly 
that he knew what he was about, and added that he 
thought Miss Lowry the finest girl he had ever seen. As 
her warning had failed to recall him to a sense of the 
fitness of things, Mrs. Marston resolved to practice an in- 
nocent little ruse in order to gain her point. Mount- 
cashel had always been so amenable to maternal disci- 
pline that his sudden insubordination fell on her like an 
unexpected blow. But the remembrance of years of suc- 
cessful domestic government stimulated her to devise 
some means by which her authority should be' re-estab- 
lished. 

Vivien was moving off with the others along the path 
which led to the road where the wagonette awaited 
them. Not a moment was to be lost. 

“Miss Lowry,” she called, softly, “will you come to 
me one moment?” 

Vivien turned at once, and, seeing the look of distress 
on Mrs. Marston ’s face, imagined she was suffering from 
sudden faintness. She was at her side in a moment. 

“You are ill. I am afraid,” said Vivien, gently. ‘Can 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


252 


I do anything for you? Sit down for a moment on this 
bank.” 

,l I — I do feel rather faint,” stammered the other. “If 
you will stay with me for a few minutes, I should be 
very grateful,” she added, seating herself on the mossy 
bank indicated, 

Vivien produced a pretty scent-bottle that had been 
one of Lady Villebois’ many gifts, and applied herself to 
the task of alleviating the sufferings of the supposed in- 
valid. Mrs. Marston was only a novice in the art of dis- 
simulation, and she felt some qualms of conscience as the 
girl’s slender white fingers untied her bonnet-strings and 
touched her temples with eau-de-cologne. 

“Do you feel better now?” asked Vivien, looking at her 
kindly. The clear gaze of those truthful gray eyes made 
the other wince slightly; but, the Rubicon of untruth 
once crossed, she felt it would not do to drop the role she 
had assumed just yet. Since she had stooped to dissimu- 
lation, she might just as well keep the deception up until 
the wagonette had started. 

“If you would be so very kind as to fetch me a glass of 
water, I — I think I should feel quite well. ’ ’ 

Vivien went at once in search of the required refresh- 
ment, which she procured after some delay. 

“I am afraid it is not so clear as it might be,” she said, 
apologetically; “one of the servants fetched it from the 
brook. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, it will do perfectly.” 

Mrs. Marston took the glass mechanically: she was 
straining her ears for the sound of wheels on the distant 
road. Surely the wagonette must have started by this 
time ! 

“I am so sorry to have troubled you, Miss Lowry,” she 
said, sipping the water to hide her confusion. Then, 
acting on a sudden inspiration, she added — “Will you 
drive with me to Clairvaulx Abbey?” Surely this act of 
condescension from a daughter of the Mountcashels 
would atone for the pardonable deception she had prac- 
ticed ! 

“I would with pleasure,” replied Vivien, in all inno- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


253 


cence, “but I promised to go with Miss Le Merchant to 
Crays-nest Common.” 

Before the other could reply, Lady Villebois, Mrs. Le 
Marchant, and the rector approached. 

“Here is the missing member of our party !” exclaimed 
her ladyship, catching sight of Mrs. Marston. “Dear me, 
I hope you are not ill?” she added, as her quick eye 
noted the lady’s untied bonnet-strings, the glass of water, 
and Vivien in attendance. 

“Mrs. Marston felt faint, but is recovering,” explained 
the latter. 

“I hope you will be equal to the drive to Clairvaulx,” 
said Mrs. Le Marchant, in a slightly aggrieved tone. It 
seemed to her that this sudden faintness of Mrs. Marston 
was an infringement of her copyright in all such inter- 
esting ailments. 

“Oh, yes,” said the invalid, briskly. “I am quite well 
again, thank you,” she added, tying her bonnet-strings 
and rising with dignity. 

“Where are you going, Vivien?” asked Lady Villebois. 

“I — I hoped Miss Lowry would go with us to Clair- 
vaulx,” put in Mrs. Marston, quickly; “it is a most in- 
teresting old place.” 

“You will be four in the barouche without me,” an- 
swered Vivien, smiling ; “besides, I promised to go in the 
wagonette. I must hurry away, or I shall be left be- 
hind.” 

Mrs. Le Marchant, who had no wish to have her ele- 
gant toilet crushed by an additional occupant of her car- 
riage, forbore to make any remark, and Lady Villebois, 
divining the girl’s wish to escape from the uncongenial 
society of the two ladies, wisely kept silence. 

Mrs. Marston watched Vivien’s retreating figure with 
some misgivings. What if the wagonette should have 
started? What if, after all, Mountcashel had seen through 
her little plot, and had defeated it either by delaying the 
departure of the carriage, or, worse still, by staying be- 
hind himself? Who could say what might be the result 
of an afternoon’s tete-a-t6te with a beautiful and no doubt 
scheming girl? Why, Mountcashel might actually be 


254 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


betrayed into proposing to her ! Filled with these fears, 
poor Mrs. Marston was led off in the opposite direction, 
and was soon bowling along the road to Clairvaulx with 
her three companions. 

Meanwhile, Vivien reached the outer verge of the wood. 
The road which skirted it was quite deserted. Mrs. Mars- 
ton’s little stratagem was so far successful. Vivien had 
been left behind. The wagonette was already a good 
mile on the way to Crays-nest Common. 

She felt a momentary pang of disappointment as she 
looked up and down the dusty road. Not a human being 
was in sight. The silence and loneliness of the spot were 
almost oppressive. Though there were hours when it 
was a luxury to her to be alone, she had no desire for 
solitude that afternoon. Perhaps she found it easier to 
put aside the perplexing thoughts that had troubled her 
of late when she was forced to talk and laugh with other 
people. The bright influence of fresh air, sunshine, and 
music, combined with the exhilarating effect of scenes 
which had all the charm of novelty, had done a great 
deal to dispel the sadness that hung on her earlier in the 
day ; though she knew that the brightness would be brief, 
that the dark clouds, which covered her mental horizon 
to the zenith yesterday, would return to-morrow. 

She had been happy for a few hours, without thought 
of the sad realities of her lot. But now, as she stood on 
the verge of the wood, and looked out at the sunlit world, 
a feeling almost of desolation stole over her. She seemed 
abandoned by every living creature, as utterly alone as 
though she stood on some desert island and watched the 
waves beat on the shore. 

There are moments when the mind rebels at its bond- 
age to the physical body ; moments when its yearning for 
freedom from the trammels of the flesh becomes almost 
intolerable. The divine something within us cries out 
for a higher life beyond the voices of this earth. Away 
up there in the immeasurable spaces of the universe the 
freed spirit could solve the mysteries which perplex us 
here ; the wide realms of Infinitude are there, but the 
golden gates which shut it in from mortal eyes cannot be 


LIKE LUCIFER. 255 

passed. Death, the keeper of the gate, holds the key, and 
turns a deaf ear to the cry of the imprisoned spirit. “The 
hour is not yet, O mortal ! live thy earthly life in patience 
and in *hope.” 

Vivien shivered slightly, though the air was warm, as 
she turned and re-entered the wood. The dreaminess 
that was rather the result of her strange childhood than 
of temperament, and which her life with Lady Villebois 
had lessened, stole over her as she sauntered slowly down 
the woodland path. The bright pictures her fancy had 
limned in the days when she dreamed away the long 
summer evenings in the little back-shop in Camberwell, 
flitted again across her mental visions. But a change had 
come over the spirit of her dream. Then, her soul-wan- 
derings had always been solitary, now a second person 
invariably figured in them. When in imagination she 
roamed through the gorgeous splendors of a South Amer- 
ican forest, or listened to the soft lapping of the sea on 
some magic shore without a name, or watched the planets 
burn steadfastly in the purple sky as the ship plowed its 
way across the wide ocean, there was always some one by 
her side — some one who understood her unspoken thoughts 
— a shadowy figure whose face was veiled, but who was 
not a stranger to her .... 

The babble of the brook caught her ear, and she turned 
mechanically in the direction whence the pleasant sound 
came. The sense of loneliness that had oppressed her a 
moment since was gone. She was happy as in the former 
days when the vagrant fancies of her brain were the only 
brightnesses of her life. She reached the margin of the 
brook, and stood idly watching the clear water bubbling 
noisily over the brown stones. The moss-covered roots 
of a nodding beech-tree offered a tempting seat. She sat 
down and took off her hat to let the soft air touch her 
forehead. As she looked down at the murmuring water, 
and then up at the overarching branches through which 
the sun’s rays could not penetrate, she felt glad that she 
was there instead of with the noisy party in the wagon- 
ette. Solitude— the old friend she had slighted in her 
thoughts— resumed its sway over her ; its kindly arms 


256 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


wrapped her in a close embrace, touching her forehead 
with its soothing mother-hand, and lulling her with the 
silence that is sometimes sweeter than music. The drowsy 
stillness of afternoon settled down on Oak Hill Wood ; 
the warm breeze seemed infected with the general lan- 
guor, and was too indolent to stir the water-plants which 
fringed the brook — the chattering, babbling brook that 
was the only active, restless element in that quiet scene. 
The mossy turf which clothed its margin made so soft a 
carpet to the feet that Vivien did not hear the footsteps 
approaching toward her retreat. The whole afternoon 
was not to be spent in lotos-eating. With those nearing 
footsteps was coming the crisis of her life. 


CHAPTER X. 

“I ONLY CAN LEAVE THEE.” 

Ormerod’s reckless determination to be happy, if only 
for the space of one summer day— even if the happiness 
he grasped at was in its essence feverish and unreal — was 
so at variance with the natural reasonableness and equal 
balance of his mind that it soon fell from him. He saw 
his folly in its true light : he resolved to revert to his 
original position, and avoid Vivien for the rest of the day. 
As the easiest way to achieve this, immediately after 
luncheon he contrived to evade Sybil’s eye and get away 
by himself to smoke a meditative cigar in a retired part 
of the wood. Sybil, with the pretty, lecturing air she 
sometimes assumed, had informed him that he was to 
drive to Crays-nest Common in the wagonette. Now 
Ormerod knew that, if he did this, he would again be 
thrown with Vivien, so he made up his mind not to 
emerge from his quiet covert until the wagonette had 
started. 

He was full of gloomy thoughts as he sat on the trunk 
of the felled tree in the secluded dell he had lighted on. 
Could Atherstone have seen his friend then, he would 
have been puzzled to recognize this gloomy-looking man 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


257 


with the frowning brows and compressed lips as the al- 
most aggressively light-hearted Ormerod of an hour ago. 
He sat there smoking moodily until he thought all Mrs. 
Le Marchant’s guests had dispersed, and then he rose 
and strolled on at random, without heeding where he 
went, thinking bitterly of many things. The day’s hap- 
piness he had thirsted for had dwindled down to an hour 
or two of forced gayety, and already the inevitable reac- 
tion had set in. 

It seemed to him that his whole life had been a failure ; 
that his ambitious yearnings would never take any tan- 
gible shape ; that the future had nothing in store for him 
but new disappointments, fresh trials, and constantly- 
recurring vexations. The goal of all his hopes — Parlia- 
mentary distinction — seemed to recede further and fur- 
ther from his vision. He began to doubt whether, after 
all, he was really fitted for his chosen career ; whether 
the long struggle which lay before him would avail him 
anything ; whether, even if success came ultimately, it 
would be worth the struggle. 

Such moments of doubt come even to the constitution- 
ally hopeful. The path which stretches out before us, 
the difficult, thorn-strewn path our tired feet must tread 
before the thing we covet can be ours stretches out in a 
dreary vista, and we begin to look backward instead of 
forward, to recall bygone struggles and failures and sor- 
rows, instead of buckling on our armor and bracing our 
limbs for new struggles. 

Ormerod had rarely been troubled with these hours of 
discouragement. Perhaps he had been a trifle over-con- 
fident of success, a trifle too satisfied with himself and 
his abilities. Since he had known Vivien Lowry, and, 
above all, since he knew that he loved her, he had begun 
to distrust his power of rising to the high level he had 
once felt so sure of attaining. 

And then the thought crossed his mind how different 
life would look to him had things been otherwise than as 
they were. If Vivien had crossed his path a year ago, 
before he had pledged himself to Sybil, she might have 
learned to care for him— and then what glorious possi- 


253 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


bilities opened out before him ! With Vivien by his side, 
everything would seem easy ; weariness of spirit would 
flee away before the light of her presence; her voice 
would cheer him, her sympathy console him when dis- 
couragement or disappointment came. 

All his fine theories about the sweet, clinging, child- 
like creature who was to be raised on a pedestal and 
worshiped as his ideal woman, had been swept away 
into nothingness. He wanted a woman who would be 
the complement of his own individuality. The mental 
qualities which he lacked — perception, enthusiasm, quick 
sympathy — Vivien possessed ; while his practical com- 
mon-sense and vigorous will would reduce to definite 
shape, and carry out, her noble but somewhat vague 
dreams of helping others. Plato’s fanciful theory that 
souls are created in pairs and go seeking each other 
through the world, flitted across his brain as he walked 
aimlessly through the wood, crushing the soft moss as he 
went. 

“I wonder how often twin-souls find each other, and, 
if they do, what the chances are that circumstances will 
not thrust them apart again, ’ ’ he thought, bitterly, as he 
approached the stream toward which he had been uncon- 
sciously wending. 

His eyes were fixed on the ground, or he would have 
caught sight of a white gown on the opposite bank. It 
was not until he reached the margin of the brook that he 
lifted them. 

“Vivien!” he said aloud, in his surprise. He had 
thought her miles away at Crays-nest Common. In a 
moment he had leaped the narrow thread of silver water 
that separated them. The brook was not the only barrier 
that was passed as he went quickly forward. Vivien had 
risen; her face was pale, and she was trembling visibly. 

“I have startled you,” he said, in a voice that sounded 
almost harsh. 

She made no answer ; the tumultuous throbbing of her 
heart frightened her. She would have given the world 
to have turned and fled the spot, but flight was not to be 
thought of. With the best assumption of self-possession 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


259 


she could command, she forced herself to look up and 
meet his eyes. They rested on her with a look she failed 
to fathom ; his lips were set firmly, there was something 
in his aspect that frightened her, mastered her. She who 
was usually so calm, so sweetly serene and unruffled, who 
usually impressed people as a queen-like woman, a grand- 
looking creature who seemed to stand apart from the rest 
of her sex not only because of her great beauty, but be- 
cause of the purity and dignity that crowned her with 
the crown of a perfect womanhood — she, Vivien Lowry, 
who had a moment since looked like some enchanted 
Dryad sitting there under the beech-tree, waiting for the 
wand of Life and Love to waken her to a fuller existence, 
stood there trembling under the glance of the man who 
loved her — trembling, but awakened. 

“Vivien!” 

He stretched out his hands to her, and without a shadow 
of doubt or hesitation she gave both hers to his clasp. All 
tremors of fear left her. Everything faded from her 
mind but the central fact that the crowning moment of 
her life had come. Both had utterly forgotten the obsta- 
cles that had kept them apart until then. They stood 
there by the brook-side like two spirits who have crossed 
the River of Death, and meet face to face on the further 
shore, understanding each other without the necessity of 
speech. There are such moments — moments when the 
shadows clear away, and souls are freed from the “mud- 
dy vesture of decay” which hampers and hinders the 
spirit it clothes ; moments when thought springs out, not 
in articulate words, but in an electric flash that conveys 
it better— it is not the language of lips or eyes, it is sim- 
ply the rushing together of two minds in exact accord 
one with the other. In the Silent Land will not that be 
the speech of souls? 

Vivien and Ormerod stood with clasped hands. The 
veil of silence that had separated them was rent in 
twain : each knew the secret of the other’s heart. The 
world might roll on ; they were heedless of it, they had 
forgotten that other human beings lived. They had found 
each other. Like the first man and woman who stood 


260 


LIKE LUCIFER, 


on the earth, that through long ages had been slowly rip- 
ening toward the consummation of Humanity, they met 
and knew they were created for each other. Either ex- 
istence without the other would be incomplete, stunted, 
colorless. Together they could fight life’s hardest battles ; 
together they could endure all the trials and wearinesses 
to which flesh is heir. Vivien’s face was transfigured — 
flooded with a light that was the outward manifestation 
of the sacred flame of joy which glowed in her heart. 

Ormerod looked at her reverently, humbly. He was 
no longer the resolute, masterful Ormerod of a moment 
since. He gazed on her with wondering, adoring eyes — 
as Pygmalion must have watched the soul waken in the 
marble to which his love had given life. What was he 
that he should have power to work this miracle? 

He felt the reverence felt by all true men when the 
priceless pearl of a pure woman’s love is given into their 
keeping — that gift so sacred, so wonderful, that its be- 
stowal must surely ennoble the basest, that rewards, as 
nothing else in this world can, the man who is worthy to 
receive it. Whatever the future had in store for Orme- 
rod, that moment would always be remembered as the 
most solemn, the most sacred experience of his life. 

Such moments are rare. To some of us they never 
come. To some they would be impossible. At best they 
are brief. The earth-mists rise and cloud their radiance. 
The sacred altar-flame dies down, and the votary turns 
away and goes back to the dull realities of life, with only 
a memory of what has been to shrine in his heart. 

Ormerod’s eyes were still fixed on Vivien’s face. He 
had watched the light of perfect joy kindle in her eyes, 
illumine her brow ; watched the sacrificial flame rise to 
heaven ; now he saw the light die out, saw the flame sink 
lower — expire. 

“Sybil.” 

Her lips breathed forth the word, and the spell which 
held them both was broken. The light faded from her 
eyes, the color from her cheeks ; her hands turned cold 
in his. She tried to withdraw them from his clasp, but 
he held them fast. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


261 


“You must go away — you must leave me — you must 
forget that—” 

“What !” he interrupted, in a smothered voice. “For- 
get that I love you? Forget that you love me?” 

Her lips moved, but no sound came. 

“Vivien, I have found you. I will not let you go. You 
are mine by right of our love.” 

“No, no. We must never see each other again. We 
have been mad — wicked. I have been untrue to my 
friend — you to your betrothed — your future wife.” 

“I will have no wife but you, Vivien. Listen to me. 
Months ago — before I had seen you — I asked Sybil to 
marry me ; not because I loved her — how could I love her, 
I did not know what love was then? I asked her to 
marry me because she seemed a gentle-hearted, lovable 
girl ; because I thought she cared for me a little.” 

“And she does care for you — not a little, but a great 
deal. You would not break faith with her now — now that 
the very day of your wedding is fixed? Oh! when I 
think of the shameful part I have played, I—” 

She snatched her hands from his grasp, and hid her 
face in a sudden agony of shame. Her breast heaved 
with a smothered sob; her limbs trembled; a sudden 
weakness overwhelmed her. She sank down on the tree- 
root, her face still hidden in her hands. 

“Vivien, my love, you must hear me — you shall hear 
me,” said Felix, kneeling down by her. “See, I don’t 
even take your hand,” he added, as she shrunk away 
from him. “I only ask you to listen to me.” 

“Every word is a disloyalty to Sybil.” 

“Sybil is too proud to accept as a husband a man who 
loves another woman. I will tell her everything. I will 
throw myself on her mercy. Is not that better than ruin- 
ing the happiness of three people? Yes, of three ; for you 
love me, Vivien. You cannot be happy without me ; 
you are mine, for your heart is mine,” he said, passion- 
ately. 

“But my conscience is not yours,” she replied, looking 
at him with her steadfast eyes. 

She was pale as death, but quite resolute. Ormerod’s 


262 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


heart sank as he looked at her. Was it possible that she 
would hold out against him— now? 

“Vivien, be reasonable. Don’t let any foolish, quix- 
otic scruples stand between us. Don’t condemn me to a 
life of emptiness, of weariness, of disgust. ’ 

“You will learn to love Sybil; you must forget me. 
Blot the remembrance of this afternoon from your mind. 

“When I forget what the sunshine is like, I shall forget 
it— and not till then ! Do you think a man can ever for- 
get his one glimpse of Paradise? No, Vivien, you may 
send me away from you, but you can never make me 
forget you. I love you now and always ; I love you, and 
only you. 

His voice thrilled every fiber of her being. Does a 
woman ever listen quite unmoved to those three words. 
“I love you,’’ spoken truthfully by a man, even when 
the love has no echo in her heart? But when they fall 
on her ear for the first time, and from the lips of the 
man she loves, can they ever be forgotten? I trow not. 

Though she struggled against it, the tide of joy was 
bearing her away. Duty seemed so cold, so harsh beside 
love. Her quick brain pictured what life would be with 
Ormerod; the perfect companionship, the oneness of 
heart that would make it so fair a thing in spite of the 
days dark and dreary which come to all. He, the man, 
must of necessity bear the brunt of the world’s battle — to 
her, the wife, would belong the sweet privilege of mak- 
ing his home the shrine of peace and brightness that a 
home should be. 

Ormerod seemed to divine what was passing in her 
mind. His eyes dwelt on her face with a yearning that 
was harder to withstand than his words. 

“Vivien,’’ he went on, vehemently, “you cannot really 
love me, or you would make this sacrifice for my sake. 
You think more of Sybil’s happiness than of mine.’’ 

She made no answer ; she dared not trust herself to 
speak. Love was pleading in her heart for him. The 
subtlest temptation of all assailed her. Would it not be 
right to do wrong that good might come? Would not 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


263 


Sybil’s sorrow be light compared with the suffering she 
was inflicting on Felix? 

“You will never see me again, you say. We are to 
part and never see each other again. Do you know what 
that means for me?” he went on, with new fervency, as 
he read signs of wavering in her face. “It means life 
without what makes life worth having, life without sym- 
pathy, without happiness, without love.” 

“Oh, you are cruel!” she whispered, in a tone of an- 
guish that pierced his heart. “Do you think it costs me 
nothing to send you from me?” 

“You love me!” he cried, exultingly, with a flash of 
triumph in his eyes ; * ‘I know it : I feel it. But let me 
hear you say it, Vivien. Say, * I love you, Felix. ’ You 
will not wish to send me from you if the words are true. ’ • 

“I love you, Felix,” she answered, looking at him fear- 
lessly, “too much to wish you to do a dishonorable thing. ’ ’ 

She had conquered at last. The subtle temptation fled 
away ; courage came back to her heart, strength to her 
limbs. She rose, and stood erect and tall before him. 

“I love you, Felix,” she repeated, in her clear, thrill- 
ing tones, “but I must leave you — now, at once. I will 
not filch my friend’s lover from her. I will not do what 
is wrong even for your sake. Some day you will think 
as I think. There is only one word to be said now — good- 
by.” 

He sprang to his feet and stretched out his arms to her. 

“You do not mean it, Vivien ! You are not going to 
leave me like this !” He longed to clasp her in his arms 
and hold her fast, but something in her aspect forbade it. 
He dared not sully the maiden purity that seemed to en- 
circle her with a sort of divinity. Brunhilde’s girdle of 
fire was not more awe-inspiring than that impalpable 
something which made Vivien sacred in the eyes of her 
lover. He stood gazing at her as if he would satisfy his 
heart’s hunger by that long, yearning look. Could it be 
true that she really meant to leave him? No : she would 
relent ; she would come to him and place her hand in his, 
and promise that nothing should part them. 

But, while the thought was still in his mind, she turned 


264 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


away, and in a moment the trees hid her from view. She 
was gone. 

‘‘Vivien !” 

His voice reached her through the thick screen of leaves 
(for days after it seemed to ring in her ears), but she only 
clasped her hands tighter together, and hurried on with 
eyes so blinded by tears that she stumbled more than 
once over the roots of trees ; hurried on with a heart torn 
by an anguish so keen that death itself could surely have 
no bitterer pang — one desperate thought only in her 
brain, to get away from the voice of the never-resting 
brook, away from the man who loved her. 


CHAPTER XI. 

FURTHER REVELATIONS. 

During the drive to and from Clairvaulx Abbey, Lady 
Villebois had plenty of time to think over all that she 
had elicited from Ralph Atherstone that morning. She 
was greatly disappointed that no other opportunity of 
conversation with him had arisen during the day. She 
longed to forge together the scattered links of evidence 
she already had in her possession. 

Atherstone was the only p#rson who could supply the 
missing links, and weld the whole into the strong chain 
which she meant to rivet round the master of Dallas 
Towers. She felt restless and impal.’ent all day. It was 
so provoking to see the man who held the key of the mys- 
tery talking with Sybil, and to know that she was power- 
less to win him from the little witch’s side. She re- 
solved that before the day was over she would wring 
from him all he knew about Le Marchant. If every 
other maneuver failed, she would secure him as her 
charioteer for the drive home. He could not well refuse 
her. Mrs. Le Marchant would no doubt press her to oc- 
cupy that much-coveted seat of honor in the barouche ; 
but, she argued, if she had succeeded in baffling that lady 
once, why should she not gather confidence from a former 
victory, and baffle her again? 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


265 


Lady Villebois was a woman of infinite resource and 
indomitable will. When she made up her mind to do a 
thing, she rarely failed to carry her point, whatever the 
difficulties in the way. Having decided that she would 
repeat the stratagem she had successfully accomplished 
earlier in the day, she patiently waited her opportunity. 
When it came, she seized it promptly. 

When all Mrs. Le Marchant’s guests reassembled, and 
the gypsy-tea was in full swing, her ladyship’s quick eye 
alighted on Atherstone, who was handing cups of tea 
about while Sybil tended the blazing fire of fagots with 
the assiduity of a vestal virgin watching the sacred flame. 
Ralph felt Lady Villebois’ eye upon him, and, attributing 
the glance to a desire for tea, went quickly up and offered 
her a cup. 

“Thanks,” she said, taking the tea with her brightest 
smile; then added, quickly, “You will drive me home, 
Mr. Atherstone? Remember your promise. I have not 
forgotten it, if you have. You have neglected me shame- 
fully all day.” 

Atherstone’s brow clouded. Why would not this 
charming old lady leave him alone? He did not wish to 
injure Le Marchant in any way, and yet how was he to 
avoid her insistence? 

“My dear Lady Villebois, I beg a thousand pardons — ” 

“I want no apologies, I want reform. Drive me home, 
and all your sins of omission and commission shall be 
canceled — so far as I am concerned, at least.” 

“I shall be delighted.” 

But, truth to say, he was far from delighted. He 
would have given anything to avoid the coming tete-d- 
tete with Lady Villebois. He had mightily enjoyed the 
drive to Crays-nest Common in Sybil’s society. He 
wanted to forget all disagreeable memories of the past, 
and, more than all, he wanted to enjoy his fool’s para- 
dise a little longer. Sybil had shown herself wonderfully 
gracious to him all day, and he was, consequently, eager 
to gather up all the happiness he could while this sweet 
mood of hers lasted. Lady Villebois’ request quite dissi- 
pated any pleasing visions about the possibility of driv- 


266 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


ing home with Sybil. However, he accepted the inevita- 
ble philosophically, and, when the carriage drove up, he 
handed her ladyship into the pony-phaeton, and seated 
himself by her side without allowing a trace of his dis- 
appointment to appear, for which manifestation of good- 
breeding he received a silent tribute of praise from Lady 
Villebois. 

“And now, Mr. Atherstone,” she began, in a business- 
like tone, “have you come to a decision in this matter?” 

Now Atherstone, instead of pondering this disagreeable 
subject, had put it resolutely from his thoughts all day, 
and given himself up without reserve to the pleasure of 
the hour. Consequently, he looked somewhat discon- 
certed at his companion’s direct question. 

“It is a matter that requires a great deal of thinking 
over,” he said, slowly. 

“Why should it? I only ask you to tell me the simple 
truth.” 

“I don’t know what use you may make of it. I am 
unwilling to act against Mr. Le Marchant in any way. ’ ’ 

“I thought I had argued out that point with you this 
morning,” she retorted, with some irritation. “I cannot 
understand your wish to shield this man.” 

Atherstone ’s face flushed. He was silent for a moment. 

“I am his guest,” he said, at last. 

“So am I— I said so this morning. But that fact is not 
strong enough in itself to make me alter my determina- 
tion to see justice done to Miss Lowry.” 

“You have placed me in a most awkward position, 
Lady Villebois.” 

“Not at all. My suspicions maybe quite unfounded. 
It remains for you to prove or disprove them. But don’t 
make me go over the old ground. I fancied I had con- 
vinced you this morning that what I have to do is a pain- 
ful necessity — but a necessity. No doubt,” she went on, 
in her most incisive tones, “your refusal to help me will 
only be a temporary stumbling-block in my way. I am 
resolved to go to the bottom of this matter, and opposition 
only strengthens my resolve. If you will not help me, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


267 


others will. I hoped to limit my inquiries, and avoid 
publicity — for the present, at least; but — ” 

“But I have not refused yet,” interrputed Atherstone, 
quietly. “Meanwhile, am I to understand that, if I do 
refuse, you will place this affair in the hands of detect- 
ives?” 

“Certainly. I shall leave no stone unturned in that 
case, and a certain amount of publicity will be inevitable. 
My solicitors, of course, know something, though not 
much — for instance, they have made extracts for me from 
Mr. Dallas’ will.” 

“Why, surely, then, you have the strongest proof that 
Le Marchant ’s title to Dallas Towers is indisputable !” 

“I have my own theory on the subject. I hold that 
Mr. Dallas made a later will than that under which Mr. 
Le Marchant succeeded to the estate. ’ ’ 

Atherstone uttered an exclamation under his breath, 
and even in the gathering dusk his companion saw that 
he turned pale. 

“The will proved by him after Mr. Dallas’ death,” pro- 
ceeded her ladyship, calmly, “bears the date of Novem- 
ber 17th, 1858 — a time when the irritation against his 
daughter was at its height — ” 

“Wait a minute, Lady Villebois,” interrupted the other, 
quickly ; ‘ ‘give me time to realize this statement of yours. 
You say positively that Mr. Le Marchant inherits Dallas 
Towers under a will dated as far back as the year 1858?” 

“Exactly.” 

“You have positive proof of this?” 

“Positive proof!” she repeated, triumphantly, “and 
supported, moreover, by documentary evidence which 
I can show you on our return to the Towers — the ex- 
tracts from the said will. ’ ’ 

“Then,” said Atherstone, gravely, “there is but one 
course open to me. ’ ’ 

“And that is — ?” 

“To tell all I know without reservation.” He paused, 
and looked his companion sadly in the face. “Though it 
will be harder than you think to do so.” 

“I think I understand,” said Lady Villebois, gently; 


268 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


‘nothing but my affection for Miss Lowry and my deter- 
mination to see her righted would have induced me to 
put so much pressure on you. ’ ’ 

She guessed why Atherstone shrunk from injuring Mr. 
Le Marchant. Sybil’s girlish figure stood between them, 
and he knew that a blow dealt at the master of the Tow- 
erB must also strike his daughter. 

“There is no help for it, I suppose,” said he, slowly; 
“after all, right is right.” 

“Of course it is,” retorted her ladyship, briskly; “and 
now, Mr. Atherstone, pray have some consideration for 
an impatient woman. Tell me what you know.” 

“Mr. Dallas did make another will — and I witnessed it 1” 
He spoke quickly — almost roughly — Lady Villebois, how- 
ever, was too elated to heed that. But her feeling of 
elation soon changed to one of wonder. 

“Then you knew all the time that Mr. Le Marchant — ” 

“Pardon me, Lady Villebois,” he said, stiffly, “I wit- 
nessed Mr. Dallas’ will, but I had and have no idea of its 
contents. I naturally concluded that Mr. Le Marchant 
inherited under the will I witnessed.” 

“I spoke hastily. I beg your pardon,” said she, frank- 
ly. “You have no idea what became of that will?” 

“Not the slightest.” 

“It must be found, if it is in existence. Further in- 
quiries must be made at once. Surely it will be possible 
to discover the solicitor who drew up the document.” 

“That I do not know.” 

“My solicitors shall have my instructions to-morrow. 
Meanwhile,” she added, turning her keen eyes again on 
Atherstone ’s face, “you have not told me any particu- 
lars, and details may be more important than either of 
us think.” 

“I told you this morning that I attended Mr. Dallas on 
a single occasion only. It was during the absence of my 
partner, Dr. Fletcher, who had been sent for by a patient 
who lived at some distance from town. At that time Mr. 
Dallas was in a very weak state of health, though he was 
not seriously ill — ” 

“He was, of course, in full possession of his faculties?” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


269 


“Quite.” 

“You could certify that, if it were necessary?” 

“Yes.” 

“Pray go on, Mr. Atherstone,” said Lady Villebois, 
after a pause, during which many thoughts glanced 
quickly through her brain. “I am all attention.” 

“I really have very little to tell,” answered the other, 
with an impatient sigh which seemed to express that the 
speaker heartily wished he had nothing at all to reveal. 
“The facts are simply these: I paid Mr. Dallas a profes- 
sional visit at his house in Brook Street ; he asked me to 
witness his signature ; and I consented. ’ ’ 

“There was, I suppose, a second witness?” 

“Yes, Mr. Dallas’ valet.” 

“And did you see Mr. Le Marchant that day?” 

“For a few minutes only.” 

“After the will was signed?” 

“Yes. He came into Mr. Dallas’ room.” 

“And it did not strike you that Mr. Dallas was afraid 
to let his nephew know that he had made his will?” 

“I had no positive proof that Le Marchant was una- 
ware of the matter. ’ ’ 

“But surely, Mr. Atherstone, you might have made in- 
quiries after Mr. Dallas’ death,” said Lady Villebois, 
sharply. 

“I left England within a fortnight of the day the will 
was signed. I did not hear of Mr. Dallas’ death until a 
few weeks ago. Indeed, the whole affair had almost 
faded from my mind. ’ ’ 

Lady Villebois remained silent and thoughtful for a 
few minutes. Twilight had deepened almost into night, 
and the stars began to show in the serene sky. It was too 
dark for Atherstone to see his companion’s face clearly. 
He waited quietly until she should see fit to address him 
again. He felt that he stood considerably lower in her 
esteem since the morning ; that she thought him guilty 
of unpardonable negligence in this matter. A sort of 
half-sullen, half-angry pride kept him silent. His con- 
science was clear ; he would make no excuses for the line 
of conduct he had chosen to take. 


270 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“I shall go up to town to-morrow,” said her ladyship 
at length. “After what you have told me, it will be im- 
possible to remain at Dallas Towers longer. I suspect 
Mr. Le Marchant of suppressing his uncle’s will.” 

“He may even now be ignorant that this later will ex- 
ists,” ventured Atherstone, quickly. 

“I think not. At Mr. Dallas’ death, all his papers 
probably passed through Mr. Le Marchant’s hands. If 
he destroyed the will, you at least can prove that it was 
really made and signed. I believe that would invalidate 
the first will. But of this I cannot be sure. I must have 
counsel’s opinion on the point. Now, Mr. Atherstone, I 
am going to ask you a few questions on another matter. 
We were talking this morning about the man you met in 
Denver City — Jabez Rudd.” 

Atherstone started, and turned to look at his compan- 
ion’s face. But again the dusk served as a veil. He 
could only see the dim outline of her features against the 
dark background of sky. 

‘ 'What has poor Rudd to do with this affair?” he asked, 
carelessly. 

“A great deal, perhaps. Did you notice Mr. Le Mar- 
chant’s face when you told the story of Rudd’s death yes- 
terday at luncheon?” 

“No.” 

“I did. And if I know anything of the human counte- 
nance Mr. Le Marchant’s face expressed an absorbing in- 
terest in what you were saying, and an overpowering re- 
lief when you spoke of Rudd’s death. Now, I have a the- 
ory of my own regarding the cause of this interest and 
this'relief. I believe that the poor outcast of Denver City 
knew a good deal about Mr. Le Marchant’s misdoings.” 

“And your only ground for this theory is that Mr. Le 
Marchant changed countenance at the mention of Rudd’s 
name?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I think it does not stand on a very strong basis,” 
said Atherstone, slowly. 

“At any rate, I mean to hunt up all the information I 
can about Rudd,” retorted her ladyship, .a trifle defiantly. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


271 


“You told me that he was compelled to withdraw from 
England on account of some discreditable transaction. It 
is possible that Mr. LeMarchant may be implicated in it.” 

“I wish that you had obtained your information from 
any one but myself, Lady Villebois,” burst out Ralph, 
irritably. “It is most painful to me to act in anyway 
against Mr. Le Marchant. ’ ’ 

“No doubt,” remarked the other, dryly. “But, Mr. 
Atherstone, you must see that I had no choice but to act 
as I have done. Miss Lowry has been cheated out of her 
property ; for I have little doubt that the will you wit- 
nessed would have placed her in her rightful position as 
mistress of Dallas Towers. Her life has been one of strug- 
gle and hardship, while Mr. Le Marchant has lived in 
luxury on her fortune. Really, I think your sympathy 
for him is misplaced.” 

Atherstone smiled rather grimly. 

“My sympathy for Le Marchant is by no means an 
enthusiastic sentiment,” he said, slowly; “but for his 
daughter I have the greatest admiration — and — ” 

“I understand. I am not quite blind, Mr. Atherstone,” 
interrupted her ladyship, quickly. “I am heartily sorry 
that it is so.” 

“Another victim to that little witch’s wiles,” she 
added, mentally; “what there is in the girl to turn a 
man’s head, I fail to see. First Felix Ormerod — and now 
his friend. What will be the end of it, I wonder?” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE STORM BURSTS. 

The pony-phaeton swept up to the entrance of the 
Towers, and its two occupants alighted. On the thresh- 
old Sybil met them with a pale, agitated face, and asked 
breathlessly if they had seen Miss Lowry. 

“I don’t understand,” said Lady Villebois, bewildered; 
“did she not return with you in the landau?” 

“No; I could not find her anywhere when we left— so 


272 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


I thought she had gone on in one of the other carriages. 
But no one has seen her.” 

“Can she have been left behind?” exclaimed her lady- 
ship, in alarm. 

“I will send back one of the carriages at once. Mr. 
Atherstone, you will go, I am sure, and Felix. I would 
go, too, but — ” 

“There is no need for that,” said Ormerod, coming for- 
ward quickly. “Atherstone and I will take the dog-cart. 
We had better start at once.” 

Lady Villebois noticed that Ormerod was pale, and 
that his face looked worn and haggard : she jumped to 
the conclusion that he was seriously alarmed on Vivien’s 
account. As a natural consequence, her own fears grew. 
It was not a pleasant thing to think of Vivien alone at 
nightfall in the solitude of Oak Hill Wood. 

“Oh, yes — pray go at once, Mr. Ormerod,” she said, in 
an agitated voice; “every moment is of consequence.” 

Meanwhile, the news that Miss Lowry was missing had 
got about among the guests ; but, as most of them agreed 
with Mrs. Marston in classing her as a “nobody, ” they 
did not think it necessary to exhibit any great amount of 
concern or alarm. Young Marston, indeed, mustered up 
courage to volunteer to make a third in the dog-cart ; but 
Ormerod coolly informed him that Miss Lowry would, he 
hoped, occupy the third seat on their return home, and 
in that case there would be no room for him. 

Le Marchant went up to Lady Villebois directly he 
heard of her uneasiness on Vivien’s behalf, and assured 
her that Oak Hill Wood was as quiet as a church, and 
that the young lady would be as safe there as in his own 
park ; that the fastest horse in his stables should be put 
between the shafts of the dog-cart, and that in all prob- 
ability Miss Lowry would be back at the Towers within 
an hour or two. 

“I hope so,” answered her ladyship, tartly. 

Something in Mr. Le Marchant’s manner irritated her. 
She longed to tell him that she knew of his past treach- 
ery ; but wiser counsels prevailed. It would be better 
not to sound the war-trumpet just yet. Vivien must be 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


273 


informed of the state of affairs before active hostilities 
commenced, and, all things considered, it would be more 
prudent, and in much better taste, to defer all further 
proceedings until they left Dallas Towers. 

Following these wiser counsels, Lady Villebois man- 
aged to restrain her indignation against her host enough 
to talk to him civilly until the dog-cart drew up at the 
entrance. A mettlesome little black mare, looking 
equal to any demands upon her speed, was between the 
shafts. Felix sprang up on the box and took the reins ; 
Atherstone followed, and in a moment the gig-lamps 
were flashing like a couple of gigantic glow-worms along 
the dark vista of the drive. Lady Villebois watched 
them until the darkness swallowed them up, and then 
went up to her own room to wait for Vivien’s return, and 
to think quietly over the strange events of the day. 

She had dismissed her maid, and was resting on the 
sofa in her dressing-room, when a low knock sounded on 
the door. 

“Come in,” said her ladyship, sharply. She was ner- 
vous, anxious, and a trifle cross, and she had a suspicion 
that the intruder was Mrs. Le Marchant. But she was 
wrong ; it was Sybil. 

“Oh! Lady Villebois, here is a telegram for you; a 
man has just ridden up from the station with it. Excuse 
me for disturbing you, but I thought it might be about 
Vivien — and — ’ ’ 

She was pale to the lips, and looked very frightened ; 
her hand shook visibly as she held out the telegram. 
Lady Villebois tore open the buff envelope, and ran her 
eyes quickly over its contents. A puzzled expression 
crossed her face as she read. 

“Is it about Vivien?” asked Sybil, breathlessly. 

“Yes.” 

“Is she safe?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where is she? What has happened?” breathed the 
girl, dropping on her knees by the sofa. 

“She is in London. Nothing of any great consequence 


274 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


has happened, I believe,” was the curt reply. Lady 
Villebois did not like Sybil, and her presence irritated her. 

“Don’t be angry with me,” said Sybil, humbly ; “I 
daresay my questions seem stupid, but — ” 

“My dear Miss Le Marchant, I am not angry. It is 
very natural that you should wish to hear of your friend. 
I can only tell you this much, that Miss Lowry is quite 
safe; that she is in London — with the friends she lived 
with before she came to live with me. I do not under- 
stand why she has taken this sudden step, but I have no 
doubt she has excellent reasons for her conduct. I shall 
go up to town myself, by the first train to-morrow morn- 
ing,” she finished, decisively. 

“But I can’t understand it!” cried Sybil. “How did 
she get to the station? She promised to drive with us to 
Crays-nest Common, but when the carriage had started I 
found she had been left behind.” 

“It is useless to indulge in any surmises,” said Lady 
Villebois, impatiently cutting short Sybil’s incoherent 
remarks. “I suppose Vivien walked to the nearest sta- 
tion, and took the train to town.” 

“But the nearest station to Oak Hill Wood is five miles 
off at least,” said Sybil, opening her large brown eyes in 
wonder. 

“I daresay Vivien is equal to a walk even of five 
miles,” answered the other, shortly. 

“What can have been her reason for leaving us like 
that?” mused Sybil, knitting her dark brows with a 
charming air of perplexity. 

‘ ‘I have said I can offer no explanation of her conduct, ’ ’ 
rejoined her ladyship, on whom pretty Sybil’s minauder- 
ies were in the last degree exasperating. “If you will 
kindly make my excuses to your mother, and say that I 
do not feel well enough to come down to dinner,” she 
went on, rising and ringing the bell, “I should be ex- 
tremely obliged to you.” 

“Can I do anything for you— get you anything?” said 
Sybil, eagerly. The poor child was really sorry for the 
brave old lady, who was too proud to show the pain Viv- 
ien’s extraordinary conduct had given her. Sybil was 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


275 


determined not to be rebuffed by the coldness and acerb- 
ity of her manner. “Do let me sit with you— I don’t 
want any dinner— and I don’t care for the dance— now.” 

“Why, dear child; this is all nonsense,” answered her 
ladyship, smiling in spite of herself. “The only way in 
which you can help me is to go down, and tell every one 
that Miss Lowry has been called to town on business ; 
make her excuses as well as my own to your mother — 
and enjoy your dance just as if nothing had happened. 
Indeed, I would rather be alone,” she added, as Sybil still 
seemed indisposed to leave her. “You are a kind little 
girl, Sybil; forgive me if I spoke harshly just now.” 

And she bent down and kissed the small, anxious face, 
whose child-like prettiness no longer angered her. 

“Perhaps I have been unjust to her, after all,” mused 
her ladyship, when Sybil had departed. “She may be 
capable of stronger feelings than I thought. She seems 
genuinely attached to Vivien.” 

And then she fell to wondering what was the motive 
that had prompted Vivien to take so strange a step as 
this sudden journey to town. Could she have heard any- 
thing of what had passed that day between herself and 
Atherstone ; and on the impulse of the moment decided 
that it would be impossible, under the circumstances, for 
her to remain at Dallas Towers? The true solution of the 
mystery never occurred to her. For once her sagacity 
was at fault. That Vivien seriously meant to take up the 
thread of her old life in the bookseller’s shop at Camber- 
well, she could not believe. It was too wild a piece of 
quixotism ! After accustoming herself to the refinements 
of Rollestone House, it would surely be impossible for 
her to return for any length of time to the mean sur- 
roundings and weary drudgery of her former lot. 

No : Lady Villebois had little fear of losing her protegee. 
Vivien had for some reason or other resolved to quit the 
neighborhood of Dallas Towers, and her old home with 
the people who had befriended her in her early struggles 
seemed the fittest place of refuge for the moment. Lady 
Villebois took up the telegram, and read it through again. 
The brief sentence did not carry much consolation with 


276 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


it, and she began to wish for the morrow, when she 
would see Vivien again. Her heart yearned towrrd the 
girl who had filled a daughter’s place in her home for 
nearly a year. It troubled her to picture Vi vien stand- 
ing, as when she first saw her, in the murky gloom of 
Mr. Muffle’s back-shop, with the long lines of dusty, 
worm-eaten volumes ranged on its smoke-begrimed 
walls. How well she remembered that day ! The tall, 
nobly-molded form in the straight gown of black stuff ; 
the wonderful beauty of her face ; the air of innate refine- 
ment that was all the more striking because it seemed so 
at variance with her surroundings. What a picture she 
made against the Rembrandt-like background of brown 
shadow, with a single ray of light slanting from a chink 
in the shuttered window down on her golden hair ! 

Then she remembered that though to an artist’s eye 
the dusty little shop and the beautiful woman behind the 
counter were extremely picturesque, yet life among those 
dingy surroundings was not exactly suited to a young 
lady of gentle birth. 

‘ ‘And all the time she was the rightful mistress of — all 
this.” Her ladyship gave an expressive wave of the 
hand toward the luxuriously-furnished room. “It must 
be admitted that Mr. Le Marchant has played his cards 
with skill, if not with honesty. Well, his reign draws to 
a close. To-morrow the first blow must be struck. ” 

Lady Villebois dined in her own room. When occa- 
sional sounds of music reached her later in the evening, 
she smiled somewhat grimly to herself. It was probably 
the last time Mrs. Le Marchant would play the hostess at 
Dallas Towers. 

“The tocsin will sound to-morrow,” she murmured to 
herself, as she caught the distant sounds of talk and 
laughter. Once a feeling of compunction stirred her. It 
was when Sybil slipped upstairs to inquire how she was. 
The girl’s eyes were very bright, and her soft, dimpled 
cheeks were flushed with dancing. She looked charming 
in her lemon-colored evening-dress. 

It was not an agreeable reflection to know that she was 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


277 


going to strip this pretty child of her wealth. But no ; 
after all, things were not so bad. Sybil was going to 
marry Felix Ormerod : the brunt of the storm would not 
fall on her. As for Mrs. Le Marchant, I fear her lady- 
ship had no visitings of remorse on her account. 

Lady Villebois passed a sleepless night. Her brain was 
ceaselessly at work piecing together the scraps of infor- 
mation she had elicited with so much difficulty from 
Atherstone. When morning at last dawned she fell into 
a troubled sleep which lasted until her maid came into the 
room with her early cup of tea. 

Though superior to so many of her sex’s weaknesses, 
Lady Villebois woke that morning with a severe headache. 
The unusual amount of physical exertion she had gone 
through on the previous day, added to the various emo- 
tions she had experienced, had their inevitable result — 
reaction. A momentary fear seized her that she was 
really ill. The idea of being laid up at Dallas Towers — 
in the very stronghold of the enemy — at a time when her 
presence in town was indispensable to the successful car- 
rying out of her plans, was so alarming that her mettle- 
some heart quailed for a moment. The maid saw the 
change in her mistress’ features, and insisted on her 
breakfasting in bed. Her ladyship would be better 
when she had eaten something. Food is the one panacea 
for illness of body or mind, according to the ideas of 
most of her class. “A square meal” is a sovereign rem- 
edy for all the ills to which flesh is heir. 

Lady Villebois fervently hoped it would be so in her 
case, and took her handmaid’s advice with much resig- 
nation. When her breakfast-tray appeared, it brought 
not only her breakfast, but a surprise in the shape of a 
small, three-cornered note. It was from Mr. Le Mar- 
chant, and ran as follows : 

“Dear Lady Villebois — I am extremely sorry to hear 
of Miss Lowry’s sudden departure, and quite understand 
the anxiety you must be suffering on her account. Would 
you give me the honor of five minutes’ private conversa- 
tion in the library some time this morning? I have some- 
thing to propose that will, I doubt not, have your entire 


278 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


approval, and will, I hope, be much to Miss Lowry’s ad- 
vantage. Sincerely yours, 

“Bernard Le Marchant.” 

The note had a magical effect on Lady Villebois. No 
tonic could have braced her better. She ate her breakfast 
with a fair appetite, and sent a message by her maid to 
Mr. Le Marchant, telling him that she would be in the 
library in an hour. In less time than that she was dressed 
and seated at her writing-table consulting a “Bradshaw,” 
while her maid was engaged in packing. 

“When you have done that, go to Miss Lowry’s room, 
and pack her boxes. I am going up to town by the 
twelve o’clock train,” she said, rising. 

The maid, whose curiosity had been considerably ex- 
cited by Miss Lowry’s sudden departure, went methodi- 
cally about her work, while her imagination — which had 
been stimulated by much reading of penny novels — was 
busy in weaving a romance in which Miss Lowry figured 
as the long-lost daughter of a duke, stolen in infancy, and 
brought up in poverty, to be finally restored to her right- 
ful sphere, and married to another duke of fabulous 
wealth and transcendental good looks. 

“And richly she’d deserve it,” exclaimed the abigail, 
enthusiastically, as she folded Miss Lowry’s gowns with 
a careful hand. “I never saw a lady who was fit to hold 
a candle to her. ’ ’ 

Unlike most dependants, Vivien was loved instead of 
hated by every member of Lady Villebois’ household. 

Mr. Le Marchant, who looked as if he also had passed 
a sleepless night, was seated before an open escritoire 
when Lady Villebois entered the library. He rose at 
once, placed a chair for her, and made some polite in- 
quiries after her health. 

These civilities exchanged— after the manner of a 
couple of duelists who, while words of conventional 
courtesy are on their lips, are mentally taking each 
other’s measure, and wondering who will be the first to 
draw blood— Lady Villebois boldly took the initiative. 

“You wished to speak to me about Miss Lowry,” she 
said, fixing her bright, blue eyes on his face. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


279 


Le Marchant, with the skill of a practiced tactician, 
had taken up his position with his back to the light ; but, 
in spite of this advantage, her ladyship saw that he 
changed countenance. 

“Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “I think you know 
that Miss Lowry is a distant relation of mine?” 

“She is the granddaughter of your predecessor here — 
your uncle, the late Mr. Dallas.” 

Le Marchant bowed. 

“Exactly ; you have been correctly informed on that 
point. The late Mrs. Lowry married against her father’s 
wish, and was disinherited. I had quite lost sight of her 
child — indeed, until I met Miss Lowry here a few weeks 
ago, I had no idea that she survived her parents.” 

Lady Villebois smiled ever so slightly, but refrained 
from making any comments. 

“As Miss Lowry is a relation of mine, I am anxious 
that she should be suitably provided for. I intend to set- 
tle the sum of £5,000 on her.” 

“You are very generous,” remarked her ladyship, with 
a touch of sarcasm that did not escape Le Marchant. He 
started and looked up quickly. 

“You do not think £5,000 is a sufficient sum?” 

“What is the rent-roll of the Dallas property?” asked 
the other, in her quietest tones. 

Le Marchant ’s sallow skin turned a greenish white, and 
a nervous tremor at the corners of his mouth told that 
the arrow had struck home. In a moment he had re- 
gained his self-control, and steadily met the keen glance 
she bent upon him. 

“I do not understand the drift of your remark,” he 
said, slowly. 

“Then I will try to make my meaning plainer, Mr. Le 
Marchant. I am sorry you have sought this interview 
with me. I hoped to defer this very unpleasant business 
until I was no longer your guest ; but, as you have your- 
self broken the ice, I have no alternative but to explain 
fully my present position toward you.” 

“Pray proceed,” said Le Marchant, dryly, as she 


280 


LIKE LUCIFER, 


paused. “I am quite in the dark. Pray enlighten 

me.” 

Something in his tone roused her ire. She rose with 
dignity and stood facing him with a set look on her hand- 
some face. 

“Mr. Le Marchant. I have positive proof of your guilt, 
or I should scarcely venture to accuse you in your own 
house of a most mean and dastardly crime. You have 
suppressed the will under which the late Mr. Dallas tried, 
as I believe, to atone for his injustice toward his daugh- 
ter. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘Indeed ! This is a most serious charge to bring 
against me, Lady Villebois. Fortunately, I. am able to 
disprove it. I have in my possession a copy of Mr. Dal- 
las’ will, which I shall be most happy to show you.” 

“A will made in the year 1858?” 

“Yes.” 

“That will is simply waste-paper. Mr. Dallas made a 
second will a few months before his death.” 

“I shall be glad to see this document. If you have 
‘positive proof’ of my crime, you are, of course, prepared 
to produce it?” 

Lady Villebois paused; for a moment she was non- 
plused. A tiresome question presented itself to her 
mind. Supposing that Mr. Dallas had made this will, 
and Le Marchant had got possession of it and destroyed 
it, what proof would she have that it had ever existed? 
Le Marchant read her countenance with his keen, red- 
brown eyes, and a smile of triumph flickered for a mo- 
ment over his hard, thin-lipped mouth. 

“Am I to understand that you are not in a position to 
produce this will?” 

“I have good reason to believe that it exists— that it did 
exist I have, as I said, positive proof.” 

‘ ‘That will hardly be sufficient to invalidate my title to 
the estates. My dear Lady Villebois, I fear you have 
been the victim either of a hoax or — ” 

“If I cannot produce the will, I can confront you with 
one of the witnesses to the will,” she interrupted, eagerly. 

“May I ask his or her name?” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


281 


“For the present I must decline to give it. And now, 
Mr. Le Marchant, I will bid you good-morning— and 
good-by. I leave Dallas Towers in the course of an 
hour. ’ ’ 

“I am sorry your visit has had so unpleasant an end- 
ing,” he said, as he opened the door for her to pass out. 

He waited until her figure disappeared up the wide 
staircase, and then closed and locked the door, and flung 
himself into an easy-chair to think. The storm had burst 
at last. 

For the moment he was so stunned by the news he had 
just heard that his brain was incapable of working to 
any purpose. The vague fears that had assailed him on 
the previous evening, when he learned from Sybil that 
Miss Lowry had been called to town on business, took a 
tangible shape now. Of course the girl was aware of 
everything ; she and Lady Villebois had been working in 
concert. The long-expected blow had fallen. His sin 
had found him out. The fabric he had reared at such 
cost was shattered in an hour. The wealth he had 
longed for, plotted for, sinned for, was slipping from his 
grasp. The yellow slave, that had done so much for him, 
would smooth his life-path no longer. He had scaled 
triumphantly the social ladder ; he must begin again at 
the lowest rung. 

Then a revulsion of feeling swept over him. His com- 
bative instincts were roused. He clinched his hands 
fiercely. No ; he would not throw up the cards yet. He 
would fight it out. Was he, Bernard Le Marchant, to be 
outwitted by a couple of scheming women? No, let them 
do their worst! He defied them. His title to Dallas 
Towers could never be impeached. Let them produce 
this will. He had not been such a fool as to hide that 
damaging document in a secret drawer or behind a slid- 
ing panel in the conventional manner. He was safe. 

Then a thought struck him like a sledge-hammer. The 
witnesses to the will — who were they? He ought to have 
made a note of their names before he burned it. He had 
been so anxious to get the document out of the way that 
he had only glanced rapidly through it. He was certain 


282 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


that Watts, the valet, was one witness ; who the other 
was he could not for the life of him remember. 

“Watts is safe enough, ’ ’ he muttered to himself ; ‘ 'dead 
men tell no tales. I think Rudd must have been the 
second witness ; if so, Lady Vllebois may do her worst. 
And yet — she spoke very positively about her proofs. ” 

An anxious look came into his eyes. They say that in 
the annals of crime detection is generally incurred be- 
cause the criminal, however skillfully he may have 
planned out the details of his crime, generally makes one 
blunder, one false step. Le Marchant, clever as he was, 
had made a mistake the veriest bungler might have 
avoided. He racked his brains to remember the name of 
the second witness. This unknown, unnamed individual 
who was to rise up and accuse him haunted him like a 
nightmare. 

Every one is familiar with the irritating mental ex- 
perience of trying to recall something known to be latent 
in the memory, but which obstinately refuses to come 
forth in a clear and definte shape. This travail of the 
mind did not tend to soothe Le Marchant’s overstrung 
nerves. The shock he had experienced when Lady Ville- 
bois made her declaration of war had been a severe one. 
It had needed all his powers of self -repression to enable 
him to keep his temper. Now he was alone, the curb 
was loosened, and for a moment he gave way to the fierce 
passion which lurked unsuspected under the granite 
hardness of his exterior. 

He paced rapidly up and down the library, his pale 
face working convulsively, his hands clinched until the 
nails ran into the palms, his eyes alight with a dull fire. 
The security of his position no longer seemed unassaila- 
ble. He was mad with rage as he cursed his own stupid- 
ity in omitting that one precaution : to record the name 
of the second witness to the will. If Rudd were not the 
man, who was it? Was it any one who could be bought, 
bribed, cajoled? He must find out, at all costs. Any- 
thing was better than this maddening uncertainty. 

He was like a belated traveler astray in a tangled wil- 
derness, dreading the onslaught of an invisible enemy. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


283 


Any moment a staggering blow might descend on his 
head, and fell him to the earth. He was powerless to de- 
fend himself. Memory refused to throw one ray on the 
thick, shrouding darkness. His unknown adversary re- 
mained wrapped in shadow. As he paced up and down 
the library, a mist seemed stealing over his faculties ; his 
brain was growing dull ; he could not think clearly. 
What had come to him? A numbness was creeping over 
his body. Some danger threatened him — what was it? 
Everything seemed dark, dim, shapeless. Yes; now he 
remembered. Lady Villebois had just told him something 
about a will. She was a meddling old woman — it was an 
unlucky hour that brought her across his path ; but she 
would be powerless to harm him. He laughed aloud and 
flung his arms out in a gesture of wild triumph. Did she 
think he was a fool? 

Then the mists floated again over his brain. He was 
groping through a forest of shadows — shadows that curled 
fantastically about him; now taking human shapes — 
horrible phantoms that grinned and pointed long skinny 
fingers at him ; now melting to vapor — a vapor that was 
suffocating, blinding, nauseating. Into what dreadful 
world had his spirit strayed? Was he dead, or was this 
the world beyond the grave? 

A booming, thunderous sound was in his ears. There 
was a throbbing in his temples like the beating of a thou- 
sand hammers. He staggered as if the blows were in 
truth falling on his head, and clutched wildly at vacancy. 
The ground was slipping from under his feet, the whole 
world reeled, he was falling — falling through lurid clouds 
down, down to oblivion. 


284 LIKE LUCIFER. 


BOOK THE FIFTH. 

time’s revenges. 

Thus the whirligig of Time 

Brings in his revenges. — Shakespeare, 


CHAPTER I. 

LADY VILLEBOIS MEDITATES. 

Contrary to her usual custom, Lady Villebois lingered 
in town through the autumn, and Rollestone House, in- 
stead of being condemned to brown-holland desolation, 
was as bright as fires and flowers could make it. October 
winds had thinned the trees, and October rains had beat- 
en down the heads of the late autumn roses, and marred 
the beauty of the velvet lawns ; but the grand old cedars 
defied wind and rain. They looked down in magnificent 
but sober state, watching the havoc wrought among the 
flowers, and gave shelter to a regiment of forlorn and 
bedraggled sparrows cowering under their widespread 
branches from the sharp lash of the driving rain. 

If the exterior of Rollestone House was cheerless, the 
interior was bright enough. The long, many- windowed 
drawing-room was aglow with the gorgeous blaze of the 
logs which crackled and sputtered on the open hearth. 
By the fireside sat Lady Villebois. She was alone, and 
her mobile face wore an expression of thoughtful abstrac- 
tion. Her hands lay idly on her lap — she was not one of 
those women who find needlework soothing to the mind. 
As she was fond of saying, she could only do one thing 
well at a time. 

Just then her whole mental energy was employed in 
thinking, therefore knitting or tatting or any ocher femi- 
nine trifling of the sort would have been to her in the 
last degree irksome. She sat quite moveless in her com- 
fortable arm-chair, for she possessed the faculty — a rare 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


285 


one — of perfect repose ; no fidgety movements of hands 
or feet or head marred the charming picture she made. 

It was a pity some artist could not see and perpetuate 
that firelit room and its solitary occupant. With her 
white hair, her fine, clear-featured face, her rich-liued 
satin gown catching crimson gleams from the fire on its 
thick, heavy folds, her thin, blue-veined hands, on which 
sparkled some of the famed Rollestone diamonds, clasped 
in her lap, Lady Villebois was the beau-ideal of a grande 
dame of the old school — a school which seems doomed to 
extinction, the restlessness of modern life not being fa- 
vorable to its existence. 

The room was very quiet. A small Sevres clock kept 
up a monotonous tick-tack on a side-table ; the fire crackled 
when the flames undermined the logs ; now and again 
the rain dashed on the windows, and the wind wailed 
through the trees, but these occasional sounds only inten- 
sified the intervals of stillness when the never-varying 
tick-tack of the clock asserted itself pertinaciously. 

Lady Villebois noticed neither the silence nor the 
sounds. Her mind was concentrated on other matters, 
so she was to all intents and purposes deaf and blind. Her 
outward eyes were fixed on the yellow tongues of flame 
leaping up the wide chimney, but her mental vision was 
filled by far different scenes. The events of the past two 
months gave her plenty to think about, and that October 
afternoon she was mentally reviewing all that had hap- 
pened since she left Dallas Towers. 

Vivien was still at Camberwell. All Lady Villebois’ 
entreaties had not availed to draw her from the seclusion 
of Mr. Muffles’ back-shop. When pressed as to her rea- 
sons for forsaking the primrose-path, and choosing in- 
stead the dreary ways of poverty, she only smiled sadly, 
and said the latter suited her temperament better. 

“1 want work; idleness enervates me. Dear friend, 
let me go my own way,” she said, when Lady Villebois 
had exhausted all her arguments. “If you ever really 
need me ; if you are ill or sad, I will come to you. 

And so Lady Villebois had been obliged to relinquish 
for the present all idea of bringing Vivien back in triumph 


286 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


to Rollestone House. There were times when the girl’s 
obstinacy vexed her, but her anger never lasted long. 
Her affection for her was unchanged. She had the great- 
est confidence in her judgment, and she was certain that 
some strong motive prompted her to act as she had. Her 
absence, however, did not prevent Lady Villebois from 
carrying out her plans for winning, or trying to win 
back Vivien’s lost inheritance. 

Since her return from Dallas Towers, she had been sed- 
ulously employed in hunting up evidence in support of 
her theory that Jabez Rudd had been an accomplice of Le 
Marchant in the matter of suppressing or destroying Mr. 
Dallas’ will. She had been tolerably successful, inas- 
much as she had traced a clerk who had been in Rudd’s 
employ at the time, and had drawn up the document for 
his employer. But this witness, though valuable, was 
not of the first importance, because, though he was ready 
to swear that the will had been prepared, he could not be 
certain it had ever been signed by Mr. Dallas. 

Another rebuff Lady Villebois received was the dis- 
covery that the valet, Watts, the second witness of the 
will, had predeceased his master by a few days, so that 
Atherstone’s testimony was the sole evidence in favor of 
her case. The news of Mr. Le Marchant ’s sudden illness 
reached her soon after her arrival in town, but she kne w 
neither the cause nor the nature of his illness. No com- 
munication of any sort had passed between Rollestone 
House and Dallas Towers. She had not seen Ormerod, 
and was ignorant of the fact that the wedding had been 
postponed until November. She had often thought of 
Sybil, and felt more than one twinge of regret that cir- 
cumstances should have compelled her to assume a belli- 
cose attitude toward her. Whenever these twinges of re- 
gret troubled her, she invariably soothed them by reflect- 
ing that, after all, Sybil would not suffer very severely 
by her father’s ruin. As Ormerod’s wife, she would be 
shielded from the disgrace which must fall on Le Mar- 
chant himself, and, though she must lose the position of 
an heiress, Ormerod’s fortune, though not large, would 
be sufficient for both. Every morning she scanned the 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


287 


first column of the Times , in the hope of reading the an- 
nouncement of the marriage. She would have been glad 
to know that Sybil’s future was assured before the crash 
came. 

Many of the complications that had resulted from her 
meeting Atherstone at the Towers puzzled her, but she 
had no time to waste on idle conjectures about the mo- 
tive which prompted the actions of the persons concerned 
in this affair. Vivien had chosen to leave Dallas Towers 
in the most abrupt manner. She had returned to the life 
of hardship from which she, Lady Villebois, had rescued 
her. Atherstone had fallen in love with Sybil, and was 
probably making himself wretched at the thought that 
he had unwittingly dealt Sybil’s father a crushing blow. 
Ormerod had carefully avoided her, and Le Marchant 
remained apparently inactive at Dallas Towers, for the 
present master of the position. What was the good of 
wasting time in unraveling these tanglings of Fate? 

She had her work marked out, namely, to throw light 
if possible on certain dark episodes in Le Marchant’s past 
life. Vivien had withdrawn from the scene ; it remained 
for her self-elected champion to look after her interests. 
Perhaps the girl’s presence at Rollestone, while its mis- 
tress was constantly interviewing solicitors and detect- 
ives, would have been embarrassing, for Vivien had never 
manifested much eagerness regarding her supposed 
“rights,” and it was more than probable that she would 
have thrown cold water on Lady Villebois’ researches. 
Nevertheless, the latter was often conscious of the void 
her absence made, and that gusty, rainy autumn after- 
noon, as she sat silent and thoughtful by the fireside, she 
felt somewhat depressed. She would have given a great 
deal to see Vivien enter the room and seat herself in the 
big arm-chair opposite her own. 

It was all very well to spend her days in working out 
her case against Le Marchant, but when evening came 
she longed for a quiet talk with the girl she had grown to 
love. This silence grew at last oppressive. She was tired 
of her own thoughts; tired of the legal technicalities 
through which she had been compelled to wade, tired of 


288 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


the whole subject of Vivien’s “rights.” She wanted hu- 
man companionship, above all she wanted to see Vivien. 
She moved in her chair and stretched out her hand to the 
bell. She would ring for lamps and occupy herself with 
a book. Like many another solitary human being she 
determined that, failing human companionship, she 
would take refuge from her own thoughts in those of a 
favorite author. 

The firelight was pleasant, but it encouraged thought, 
and she was weary of thinking. Before her hand touched 
the bell she heard the sound of wheels on the drive. Her 
solitude was about to be broken. A look of vexation 
crossed her face. She was not in the humor for receiv- 
ing ordinary visitors. The prospect of listening to Small- 
talk for half an hour was more distasteful even than 
solitude. Before she had recovered her equanimity, the 
door was thrown open and Wilson announced, 

“Mr. Ormerod.” 


CHAPTER II. 

AN APPEAL. 

As Ormerod came forward from the shadow of the 
heavy portiere which draped the door, into the full light 
of the blazing fire, Lady Villebois saw that he was greatly 
changed. He looked grave, careworn, almost old. 

“I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Ormerod,” she 
said, when they had shaken hands. “It seems a long 
time since we met. Have you been out of town all the 
autumn? Is that the reason you have not come to see me 
before?” 

“I have been at Compton Magna a good deal lately.” 

“ On politics intent, I suppose? I hope the free and 
independent electors promise to be docile.” 

“That remains to be seen,” he answered, indifferently. 
“Miss Lowry is not with you?” he added, abruptly. 

Lady Villebois looked at him curiously. In manner he 
was altered even more than in appearance. He was ab- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


289 


rupt, eager— quite unlike the cool, calm, self-confident 
Ormerod of former days. 

“■No; Miss Lowry is not living at Rollestone House 
now. ' ’ 

“Where is she? You know where she is, of course?’' 

“Oh, yes; I know where she is.” 

“Will you give me her address?” he said, leaning for- 
ward eagerly. 

“I cannot promise that,” she replied, looking at him 
with growing astonishment. 

“Why not?” 

‘ ‘I do not think she would wish it. ’ ’ 

Ormerod glanced sharply across at her. He bit his lip 
and frowned. As he read the surprise depicted on her 
expressive face, he was conscious of the extraordinary 
complexion his request must wear to one who knew 
nothing of the dessous des cartes. A sudden impulse 
prompted him to enlighten her. He had suffered much 
for many weeks, and he was growing reckless. 

“I must see her,” he said, impatiently. “I am tired of 
acting in this comedy of errors. ’ ’ 

“What comedy of errors, Mr. Ormerod?” 

‘ The comedy will probably become a tragedy, if matters 
go on like this,” he returned, gloomily. “Lady Villebois, 
why has Miss Lowry left you?” 

“That is precisely the question I have been trying to 
answer these past two months.” 

“But you know where she is?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Lady Villebois, I was the cause of her sudden flight 
to London,” he said, plunging straight in medias res. 

She stared at him incredulously. For the moment she 
fancied her ears must have deceived her. 

“Yes,” he went on, recklessly. “I was mad enough to 
tell Miss Lowry that I loved her, and to avoid, me she 
left Grasshire.” 

“You told her that! Mr. Ormerod, you amaze me! 
You were then engaged to Miss Le Marchant. Am I to 
understand you that the engagement is now broken off?” . 

Ormerod was silent. The plain question put the whole 


290 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


affair before him in its true light. His conduct had been 
in the last degree dishonorable; he could not defend 
it. Lady Villebois watched him in eager surprise. 
That he was changed, she had seen the moment he en- 
tered the room ; now she studied his face at her leisure, 
she was shocked to see the lines of care which furrowed 
his forehead and the look of weariness and depression 
that lurked about his mouth. His eyes she could not 
read, for they were bent on the ground. 

“No doubt you think me a mean sort of scoundrel,” 
he said at last, lifting his eyes suddenly with a look al- 
most of defiance. “I have been to blame, no doubt. But 
I love Miss Lowry as I can never love any other woman. ’ ’ 

“I cannot listen to any rhapsodies, Mr. Ormerod, until 
you have answered my question,” she said, sternly. 
“Are you still engaged to Miss Le Marchant?” 

“Yes — I suppose so.” 

“Then I must say I think your conduct — ” she began, 
impulsively. 

“I cordially indorse all you can say in condemnation 
of it,” he interrupted, bitterly. “You cannot possibly 
blame me mo^e than I blame myself. I came here,” he 
went on, calmly, “to make one last appeal to Miss Low- 
ry. She is not here ; do you refuse to let me know where 
she is?” 

“I refuse emphatically.” 

“Then, Lady Villebois, I will lay the whole case before 
you, if you will give me your attention for a few min- 
utes.” 

He leaned forward in his chair, squared his elbows on 
his knees, and fixed his eyes full on her face. He was 
unusually pale, and the lines of his mouth and chin hard- 
ened into sternness. He looked a great deal more like a 
judge about to pass sentence on a criminal, than a lover 
about to confide his woes to an interested if not sympa- 
thetic listener. Like most of her sex, Lady Villebois was 
always impressed by any exhibition of masculine strength 
either of mind or body. When Ormerod’s eyes were 
fixed on the floor, when he spoke of his love, and accused 
himself of folly in the same breath, she assumed the se- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


291 


verity of a critic, and was ready to carry matters with a 
high hand. If she had not spoken daggers she had looked 
them, and the latter method is not infrequently the more 
effective. She had been indignant that he, an “engaged 
man,” had ventured to tell Vivien of his love, and she 
had not hesitated to show her anger. 

But now that he boldly took up his position, with the 
evident determination to defend it to the last gasp, she 
quailed. Already her heart relented. She was not too 
old to feel sympathy with an unhappy affair of the heart, 
and she had the true feminine delight in receiving confi- 
dences on such a subject. Ormerod saw that her interest 
was already aroused and was proportionately encouraged. 

“We have always been very good friends, Lady Ville- 
bois,” he began, coolly. “But I do not ask you to judge 
me leniently ; I only ask you to hear me out to the end. 
It shall be justice unseasoned by mercy, if you like,” he 
added, with a rather bitter smile. “I shall be satisfied 
with justice only. ” 

“What a formidable preamble!” she exclaimed, trying 
to speak lightly. “Are you expecting to be called to the 
Bar shortly, and is this a sort of informal rehearsal of 
your maiden address to the twelve honest men? Come,” 
she added, dropping her bantering tone, “I am not a very 
formidable person. As you say, we have always been 
good friends, and I am by no means disposed to treat 
your confidence in an unfriendly spirit.” 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“One question, Mr. Ormerod, before you go on— is your 
marriage with Miss Le Marchant postponed indefinitely?” 

“The marriage is fixed for the second week in Novem- 
ber.” 

“So soon ! Really. Mr. Ormerod, I— but I promised to 
suspend judgment.” 

“Thank you,” he returned, dryly. “I will state the 
position as briefly as I can. I have been engaged since 
last June to Miss Le Marchant. Unfortunately, I found 
out some weeks afterward that my affection for her was 
not so deep nor so lasting as I had believed it to be.” 


292 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Masculine fickleness !” murmured her ladyship, under 
her breath. Luckily Ormerod did not hear the remark. 

“Instead, I discovered that in Miss Lowry I had found 
the woman I could both love and reverence — the woman 
whose love would make me entirely happy. For some 
time I tried to crush this growing affection ; I believed 
it not only hopeless but wrong, for I was already an en- 
gaged man. But, in spite of me, it grew and strength- 
ened. Love is not so easily rooted out. So matters went 
on until the day of the picnic in Oak Hill Wood. I sup- 
pose there is a fate in these things. That day the truth 
came out — I spoke to Vivien — I told her that I loved her.” 

“And what did she say?” inquired her ladyship, eager- 
ly. Being a woman, the love-story interested her so 
much that she forgot to administer any rebuke. 

Ormerod paused ; a dusky flush spread over his face. 
He could not confess, even to Lady Villebois, that Vivien 
loved him. It would be akin to sacrilege. 

“She sent me away, and bade me never see her again,” 
he said, at last. 

He knew that the words would convey the impression 
that his love for Vivien was unreturned. But what 
could he do? To avow the truth would strengthen his 
case, for it would be not only his best excuse for break- 
ing with Sybil, but Lady Villebois’ sympathy would be 
enlisted. Yet he shrank sensitively from betraying the 
secret that was hers as well as his. 

“And, in spite of this, you wish to force yourself on 
her?” she asked, in her sternest tones. 

Again he was silenced. How events told against him ! 
How despicable his conduct must seem to her ! 

“What purpose would be served, if I did give you Viv- 
ien’s address?” she pursued, coldly. “If you had the 
temerity to speak to her again in that strain, you would, 
in all probability, receive the same answer.” 

“I love her. I would make one more appeal to her,” 
he urged. 

But he saw his case was lost. Lady Villebois had al- 
ready judged and condemned him. 

' ‘Such love is unworthy of you, Mr. Ormerod. I can- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


293 


not imagine a man wishing to win a woman who does 
not care for him.” 

Again he reddened ; but he bit his lips and kept silent. 

“There is only one course open to you, as far as I can 
see,” she went on, calmly. “Marry Miss Le Marchant. 
You loved her once — at least, I suppose so, or you would 
not have asked her to be your wife. No doubt you will 
learn to love her again. You will get over this romantic 
affection for Vivien, and probably your married life will 
reach the ordinary standard of connubial happiness. 
Marriage is always a lottery, you know.” 

“It is not like you to speak so cynically,” remarked 
Ormerod, quietly. T thought I should be sure of hear- 
ing noble words from you on such a subject.” 

Lady Villebois winced. A quiver of pain passed over 
her face. The shaft had winged its way straight to her 
heart. Ormerod knew nothing of that old story of her 
long acquaintance with conjugal misery, or he would 
rather have cut off his right hand than have sped it home. 
How a careless word, a thoughtless allusion will make 
an old and half-forgotten wound throb and tingle ! The 
hurt was inflicted long ago. It had healed, or she 
thought it had healed. But this implied reproach tore it 
open. It bled afresh, and the agony of it whitened her 
face and filled her eyes with the slow, painful tears of 
age. He saw that he had hurt her, and hastened to ap- 
ply verbal balm. But she stopped him at once, and qui- 
etly asked if Sybil had any idea that he had wavered in 
his allegiance to her. 

“She is such a child,” Ormerod answered, evasively, 
“and I don’t think she is particularly observant.” 

“Then you have not spoken to her on the subject?” 

“No.” 

“Then take my advice; never do so. It would be a 
fatal blow to her happiness— and your own. A woman 
never forgives a slight of that soft. Sybil is a good little 
girl. I believe she is sincerely attached to you— you 
ought to consider yourself a fortunate man. Marry her, 
and forget this mid-summer madness. I grieve to think 
you should have pained Miss Lowry by placing her in a 


294 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


positibn of unconscious and unwilling rivalry to Sybil. 
If you knew all the circumstances of the case, you would 
agree with me that there is only one possible way out of 
this imbroglio. Marry Sybil, and try to make her happy. ” 

She spoke with such strange earnestness that Ormerod 
was fairly puzzled. Lady Villebois had never shown any 
affection or Sybil, why should she be so bent on securing 
her happiness? 

“Mr. Ormerod,” she went on, with increasing eager- 
ness, “if you loved Vivien a thousand times more than 
you do, still you ought to marry Sybil. You asked her to 
marry you when her future seemed assured, now that — ” 
she paused, and looked fixedly at him. 

A momentary suspicion crossed her mind that he had 
heard rumors of Le Marchant’s crime, and shrank from 
marrying the daughter of the criminal. But she put the 
thought away with shame. He would never be guilty of 
such injustice and such meanness. 

“I don’t understand you,” he said, meeting her eyes 
frankly. “Miss Le Marchant will be a very rich woman. 
It seems to me that that fact makes things all the easier 
for me. My worst enemy could not accuse me of fortune- 
hunting,” he added, with a smile; “Miss Lowry is pen- 
niless, and, forgive me for saying it, in the position of a 
dependent, while Sybil — ” 

“Stop!” interrupted the other, hastily, “let us keep 
Miss Lowry’s name out of the discussion. Mr. Ormerod,” 
she went on, impressively, “if I tell you that Miss Le 
Marchant is not an heiress, that she is practically penni- 
less, that her position will soon be infinitely worse than 
that of a dependent, will you believe that I speak with 
authority? I tell you that you are bound in honor to 
marry this girl. You asked her to be your wife when 
everything seemed fair and promising; you must not 
break with her now that trouble and poverty, and per- 
haps shame, threaten her.” 

“Shame!” repeated Ormerod, knitting his brows; 
“shame to Sybil?” 

“Yes, through her father. Mr. Le Marchant has placed 
himself in the power of the law. Not an acre of the 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


295 


Dallas estate belongs to him, nor- a shilling of the Dallas 
rent-roll. ’ ’ 

‘But—” 

“Don’t interrupt me, please. I know my words must 
seem incredible, but I assure you they are absolutely 
true, and, what is more, I can prove that they are so. 
Mr. Le Marchant secured the possession of the Dallas 
property by a fraud— a fraud which I am about to ex- 
pose. ’ ’ 

“You, Lady Villebois ! In what way have you become 
involved in Mr. Le Marchant’s affairs?” 

She saw her mistake at once. Having admitted so 
much, there was nothing for it but to tell everything. 

“In my position as Miss Lowry’s guardian,” she an- 
swered, coolly. “She and not Sybil is the heiress of Dal- 
las Towers. Now, Mr. Ormerod, you see how utterly 
impossible it would be for you, as a man of honor, to 
forsake Sybil for her cousin.” 

“Her cousin! Dear Lady Villebois, have a little pity 
on my ignorance. I am completely in the dark. Don’t 
torture me with hints, tell me all there is to tell in plain 
language.” 

Thus adjured, she told him briefly of Le Marchant’s 
treachery, his relationship to Vivien, and every detail of 
the case she was then working out against him. Orme- 
rod listened in silence. Outwardly he was calm. His 
pale, set face and steady eyes did not betray the battle of 
conflicting emotions that was being fought out in his 
breast. Love for Vivien, pity for Sybil, and contempt- 
uous anger against Le Marchant alternately won the day. 
But clear above all rose the certainty that Lady Ville- 
bois’ story left him no loophole of escape from the net of 
perplexities which entangled him. He had come to Rol- 
lestone House that afternoon with some hope of seeing 
Vivien and overruling the decision she made two months 
ago ; but now he saw the futility of that hope. The bar- 
rier which separated them towered higher, shutting him 
out from her presence forever. 

“You are right, Lady Villebois,” he said at last, when 


296 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


she had told him everything. “I cannot break off my 
engagement with Miss Le Marchant now.” 

Her ladyship looked considerably relieved. It would 
have pained her deeply to know that Vivien should have 
unwittingly wrecked Sybils happiness. She held out her 
hand to Ormer,od and smiled brightly. 

“You have taken a load off my mind,” she said, as he 
rose and took the offered hand. “I hope and believe you 
will be happy with Sybil. Her character is docile — most 
men like a wife they can mold as they will — and then 
she is so charmingly pretty !” 

Ormerod smiled rather sardonically ; but he did not 
pursue the subject. Her words seemed such a bitter 
satire on the views he had once so tenaciously held. 

“And the wedding is to take pace the second week in 
November?” pursued her ladyship, mercilessly. Orme- 
rod had not resumed his chair, but stood on the hearth- 
rug looking gloomily into the fire. 

“Yes,” he answered, slowly. “Atherstone is to be my 
best-man. He is your principal witness in the impend- 
ing lawsuit, I think you said. Is Mr. Le Marchant aware 
of the fact?” 

“I believe not.” 

“Then perhaps you will hold your hand until after the 
wedding. I should like Sybil to be my wife before the 
crash comes — and it would not be pleasant for Atherstone 
to stand in a hostile position toward the Le Marchants, if 
he is to be my best-man,” he added, with a bitter smile. 

“No steps of any kind shall be taken until after the 
wedding. I am as anxious as you are to spare Sybil any 
unnecessary pain. Mr. Atherstone ’s silence can be relied 
on, since he has not mentioned the subject even to an in- 
timate friend like yourself. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes. Atherstone is discretion itself.” 

“Very well, then, I will conclude an armistice with 
Mr. Le Marchant until after his daughter’s wedding. 
By-tfie-by, I heard some report about his being ill. Is it 
true?” 

“Yes ; he had a seizure of some sort— a slight paralytic 
stroke, I believe— on the day you left the Towers. " He 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


297 


was found insensible in the library. It was nothing very 
serious, but he looks much aged and shaken. Atherstone, 
who studied medicine in his youth, says his system has 
received a severe shock, and that he will never be the 
same man again.” 

“I am very sorry to hear it,” she rejoined, gravely. “I 
had no idea the illness was anything so serious. Mr. Le 
Marchant is one of those men who give an impression of 
almost superhuman vitality. It is impossible to picture 
him ill or weak, or suffering in any way. Mentally and 
physically, he seemed of iron build.” 

“Yes; but a man of that inflexible fiber is sometimes 
shattered to a wreck when a man of more pliable char- 
acter would suffer little,” said Ormerod. “It is a case 
of the oak and the reed.” 

“Perhaps,” returned the other, dryly. “I confess, 
however, that I feel no disposition to spare him. He in- 
flicted terrible sufferings on the Lowrys; it looks as if 
this illness were a visiting of Nemesis.” 

“Nemesis in your person will soon avenge Mr. Dallas 
to the full,” replied Ormerod. “Le Marchant is just the 
sort of man to fall like Lucifer — never to hope again. I 
suppose you have taken as your motto : Fiat justitia , 
mat coelum, Lady Villebois,” he added, dryly. Then a 
sudden thought struck him. “Does Miss Lowry know 
of your plans?” he asked, suddenly turning to her. 

“She knows something, but not much. She has no 
idea that Mr. Atherstone is concerned in the matter, or 
that I have any positive evidence to bring forward. I 
spoke to her on the subject before the visit to Dallas Tow- 
ers, but I have kept all these later discoveries secret.” 

“ She would have been more merciful,” thought Orme- 
rod, as he took his leave and went out again into the gray 
twilight. 

He had dismissed the hansom that had brought him to 
Chiswick, and as he walked past the gloomy cedars a 
memory came back to him of a sunny June afternoon 
when the golden sunlight lay warm on the velvety lawn 
—a day of light and color and fragrance. He looked 
back at the gray facade of Rollestone House, and up at the 


298 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


dull gray sky. The rain had ceased, but a damp, clinging 
mist hung about the trees. Ormerod, though not of an 
impressionable temperament, felt his spirits depressed to 
zero. The afternoon was as gray and cheerless as his 
own future promised to be. The memory of Vivien 
standing under the cedar, with the well-remembered look 
of expectancy in her eyes, pierced him with a keen pang. 
He walked across the sodden turf and stood mider the 
shadow of the old cedar. He took off his hat. To him 
it was sacred ground. He must bury his love-dream in a 
deep grave ; it should lie there under the cedar, for there 
it had been born. 

The rain-drops dripped heavily from the branches as if 
the noble tree wept tears of compassion over the grave. 
The whole scene was funereal. The gray mist hung like 
a pall over the black cedar-boughs ; the gray old house 
looked like a giant tomb. It was a dreary world of gray 
and black shadow. Suddenly the mournful silence was 
broken by the slow strokes of a tolling bell. It was only 
the deep-toned bell of a neighboring church ringing for 
evening service, but to Ormerod it seemed typical. He 
was burying his love-dream, and this was its fimeral 
knell. 


CHAPTER III. 

\ 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

During those dull and too often dreary autumn months, 
Mrs. Le Marchant thought herself a most sorely tried 
and long-suffering woman. Since the summer every- 
thing seemed to go wrong at Dallas Towers, and its mis- 
tress had a fair share of mundane worries laid on her 
elegant shoulders. Her husband’s sudden illness and the 
consequent breaking-up of the party assembled to meet 
Lady Villebois, was an event so entirely out of the range 
of what she considered probable that she thought herself 
personally aggrieved thereat. It seemed to her so ridic- 
ulous that a strong man like Le Marchant— who, pre- 
viously, had never known a day’s illness— should be 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


299 


struck down so suddenly and apparently so causelessly ; 
still more ridiculous that instead of rallying from the 
blow he should sink into a state of semi-invalidism. 

Selina did not like to see her husband looking pale and 
weak and nervous^-that was her metier. It annoyed her 
dreadfully to see Sybil hovering about his chair with a 
tender solicitude she had never lavished on her ; conse- 
quently, Mrs. Le Marchant kept to her own room as much 
as possible, and her husband and daughter were left to 
themselves for the greater part of the day. , Sybil evi- 
dently liked the office of nurse, while she, Selina, was 
far too fragile for anything of the sort. It tired her to 
read aloud, and her husband liked to be read to for hours 
together. Why should she injure her delicate chest and 
weak throat by overtasking her voice in his service, when 
Sybil was ready to read on like a vocal automaton as 
long as her father liked to listen to her? Why should 
she sit by his chair, and arrange his pillows, and give 
him his medicine at the right hour, when Sybil declared 
that nothing pleased her better than to spend her whole 
time in waiting on the invalid? 

Clearly there was not the slightest necessity for such 
self-abnegation on her part. She had her own health to 
consider, and the wisest thing she could do was to re- 
main passive. Sybil was strong and hearty ; her consti- 
tution had never been tried by the cares of wifehood and 
motherhood, argued Selina. It was obviously Sybil’s 
duty to bear the burden which was so much too heavy 
for her mother’s shoulders. 

Le Marchant was probably the gainer by the arrange- 
ment. His wife’s peevishness and cold selfishness would 
have irritated him beyond endurance in those days of his 
weakness, while Sybil made an ideal nurse. Her voice 
was always soft and gentle, and the touch of her pretty, 
white hands was as soothing as her voice. It was de- 
lightful to watch her move about the room with an air 
of innocent self-importance. Her charming face was so 
fresh, so flower-like in its youth and bloom, and her large 
eyes had an expression of serious thought which gave 
new beauty to her glance. 


300 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


Le Marchant had never lavished much affection on his 
pretty daughter, but her readiness to wait on him, when 
he was weak in body and weary in spirit, woke in him a 
sort of reluctant gratitude. Like most men who all their 
lives have been strangers to physical suffering, and some- 
what impatient of weakness in others, when illness at 
last came, Le Marchant grew irritable and nervous, and 
very hard to please. When Sybil read to him, he found 
fault with her enunciation, accused her of inaccurate 
pronunciation, and asked crossly why she persisted in 
reading too fast ; “he could not follow her when she gab- 
bled at the rate of three hundred words a minute. ’ ’ 

Sybil bore these and other complaints with exemplary 
patience and never- varying sweetness. With instinctive 
tact, she adapted herself to all his moods, and humored 
all his whims ; and was never so happy as when she won 
from him an approving word or smile. Man of iron as 
he was, her gentleness and obedience softened and hu- 
manized him. 

As the weeks went on, and the dreary autumn after- 
noons shortened, he grew strangely dependent on her. 
His pretty daughter’s presence was essential to his com- 
fort. No one but Sybil could arrange his pillows as he 
liked ; no one but Sybil could read intelligibly ; no one 
else could be trusted to measure out his medicine ; and 
when the weather was fine, and he felt stronger, he 
would suffer no one but Sybil to drive him out. 

On bright autumn mornings, when the sky was swept 
clear of mist by a fresh, southwest wind, those drives in 
Sybil’s pony-carriage varied pleasantly the dull monotony 
of the invalid’s life. 

“Why, papa, I declare you are quite rosy,” remarked 
the girl, with pardonable exaggeration, as they drove 
through the village one brilliant October forenoon. 

The sunshine was warm with a memory of summer; 
autumn flowers bloomed in the cottage gardens, and the 
almost leafless apple-trees still bore a sprinkling of red- 
cheeked fruit. Le Marchant looked about him with a 
feeling of revived interest in life. Since the day he had 
been struck down by the terrible foe, paralysis, he had 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


301 


sunk into a state of mental lethargy. Thought became 
irksome to him ; it was impossible to fix his attention 
long on any subject. But that morning the blue, sunny 
sky, the fresh, soft wind that kept the sparse, yellowing 
leaves moving on the boughs, gave him a vague sensation 
of pleasure. His dulled faculties stirred, thought grew 
clearer, and little by little memory awoke ; but, alas ! 
with it came terror. 

As he gradually recalled his last interview with Lady 
Villebois, and all the danger of his position, a faint re- 
flex of the old spirit woke in him. Sybil saw the light 
kindle in his eyes, and rejoiced thereat. Her father 
would soon be strong again, and their lives would flow 
on in the even current of former days, with this differ- 
ence only — she would never again be afraid of him, never 
suffer him to keep her at arm’s length. The ill- wind of 
his illness had brought her this good, at least ; it had bro- 
ken down the iron fence of reserve behind which Le Mar- 
chant had intrenched himself for so long. Sybil’s spirits 
rose, as the dainty little carriage spun briskly along the 
lanes. 

“Don’t the ponies go well to-day, papa?” she said, with 
an approving shake of the reins — “and what beauties they 
are ! I don’t believe there is a prettier pair in England.” 

Le Marchant made no answer ; his eyes were troubled 
as they rested on his daughter’s face. 

“Sybil,” he said, abruptly, “is your wedding-day fixed 
yet?” 

The girl seemed startled by the suddenness of the ques- 
tion, for a vivid color came into her cheeks, and she 
averted her eyes. 

“Yes, papa,” she said, in a low voice. 

“When is it?” he pursued, with eager interest— “soon?” 

“Oh, papa, do you want to be rid of me?” she said, 
turning a reproachful glance on him. All her gayety 
had forsaken her she was pale, and her eyes had a wist- 
ful sadness in them . 

“No, child, of course not,” he answered, irritably. “I 
shall miss you very much, but—’ ’ 

“But you don’t want to stand in the way of my happi- 


302 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


ness — is that what you mean, papa?” she said, with a 
somewhat melancholy smile, as he paused. 

“Perhaps so,” he returned, looking at her keenly. “I 
shall be glad to know that your future is assured. ’ ’ 

Sybil arched her dark brows and shrugged her shoul- 
ders. 

“Oh, yes,” she assented, indifferently. “The wedding 
is to be next month, on the twelfth — that is, if you are 
better.” 

‘ Tt need not be postponed a second time on my account. 
Has Ormerod been over to the Towers lately?” he asked, 
after a brief silence. 

“Not very lately; he has been so busy at Compton 
Magna. ’ ’ 

“He should have made time to come. Atherstone, who 
has to travel nearly a hundred miles, contrives to find 
time to visit us,” he retorted, querulously. 

“Mr. Atherstone is a doctor, you know, papa, though 
he does not practice,” she remarked, smiling; “his visits 
are of a semi-professional nature. ’ ’ 

“He is a good fellow, doctor or no doctor. I like him. 

I believe he has saved my life. That blundering old 
idiot Ernstone would have let me die.” 

“Mr. Atherstone is very kind,” said Sybil, drooping her 
dark lashes. And then she relapsed into silence. 

Le Marchant also pursued his reflections : the almost 
lethargic passivity he had shown of late was slowly giving 
place to a haunting terror that something would yet occur 
to break off Sybil’s marriage. If Lady Villebois fulfilled 
her threat, if ruin and disgrace were shortly to be his 
portion, it would be some alleviation to him to know that 
Sybil was sheltered from the storm. Her tender care of 
him had won the girl a place in her father’s callous, 
worldly heart. If Lady Villebois would only hold her 
hand until Sybil was Ormerod’s wife, he would be con- 
tent. After that, the deluge might come. He was grow- 
ing strangely indifferent about his own future. On his 
wife’s account he troubled himself not one whit. He had 
a half-indulgent, half-pitying contempt for her weakness . 
and vanity. He had probed her selfish nature to the core, 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


303 


and found there no grain of love for himself. He knew 
she feared him, and her entire submission deepened his 
contempt for her almost to dislike. There was a strong 
spice of the tyrant in his character, but, like many other 
tyrants, he preferred women of stronger mental fiber 
chiefly because it gave him more satisfaction to dominate 
them. To conquer a flaccid creature like his wife was at 
best a poor triumph. To have first won and then tamed 
the proud heart of Catherine Dallas would have given 
him infinite pleasure. 

It was strange how vividly the memory of that early 
love returned to him in the days of his weakness. Long 
forgotten incident of his youth were faithfully recalled 
to the minutest details. During those long hours when 
he sat in his deep arm-chair by the fireside, to all appear- 
ance half-asleep, he lived his life over again. The humil- 
iations of his boyhood; the poverty and bitterness of 
soul he had known in early manhood ; his mother’s pa- 
tient face; blustering, swaggering Jack Le Marchant 
coming home with flushed cheeks and glittering, restless 
eyes, after a bad night at roulette ... He remembered 
it all with terrible distinctness. Then came the second 
phase in his career — his life under his uncle’s roof, and 
his desperate determination to rehabilitate himself by 
marrying his cousin. What an easy road to fortune and 
happiness it had seemed, and how full of pitfalls it proved ! 
So he had gone on dreaming of the past, instead of brac- 
ing himself to meet the new dangers in his path. 
Whither would that path lead him ultimately ? The end 
was not yet. 

In certain moods, when his mind was full of these 
memories, he was tempted to tell Sybil everything. What 
a relief it would be to fling caution to the winds ; to lift 
the flood-gates of silence and let the whole tide of bitter 
waters out! One of these moods was on him now. He 
turned suddenly, and looked in Sybil’s face. She, too, 
seemed thoughtful, and rather sad, for her rosy lips had 
a meditative droop at the corners, and her eyes were fixed 
absently on the ponies’ well-groomed haunches. It is 
just possible that she was also occupied in reviewing the 


304 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


events of her short life. Even youth is sometimes retro- 
spective. 

“Sybil,” he began. There was a vibrating something 
in his tone that startled her into attention. She turned 
to him with an inquiring expression on her charming 
face. But, like many another possible confidence, Le 
Marchant’s only reached the initial stage. Something in 
the girl’s eyes*checked him, and the wish for any out- 
pouring of heart passed. Sybil would never understand 
the full significance of his past ; she would never compre- 
hend how slowly, almost imperceptibly, he had drifted 
into ruin ; how the desire to rise — that desire which has 
spurred many a man to do noble deeds — had only prompt- 
ed him to ignoble ends. No ; it was as impossible to tell 
Sybil anything about the past as it was to tell her of the 
existence of a danger of which he had at last realized the 
full extent. No; he could not tell her. Things must 
drift on as Fate chose. His physical weakness was an- 
swerable for these yearnings to confide in some one. He 
must conquer those yearnings. 

“Yes, papa,” said the girl, gently, as he paused. 

“Sybil, I should like to see Mr. Atherstone this after- 
noon. Could you send him a telegram?” 

A sudden thought had struck him. The impulse to 
confide in Sybil had been checked, but, instead of dying 
out, it had rebounded. He would see Atherstone, swear 
him to silence, and lay. the whole case before him. 

“Oh! yes, papa, certainly; and I am sure he would 
come at once. I will stop at the post-office as we go back 
through the village, and send off the telegram at once.” 

“He would be able to catch the three o’clock train from 
Euston, in that case,” added Le Marchant, with more 
eagerness than he had shown since his illness. 

“Yes. But, papa, you look so much better, I am sure 
Mr. Atherstone will wonder why you have sent for him,' 
she added, smiling. 

“I am better— much better.” assented Le Marchant; 
“but I don’t think he will wonder long.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


305 


CHAPTER IV. 

ATHERSTONE AT THE HELM. 

So IT was that Atherstone, sitting at his writing-table 
in his quiet lodgings in Kensington, was suddenly sum- 
moned to Dallas Towers. As he read Sybil’s telegram, 
a curious smile played about his Ups. He was glad and 
at the same time reluctant to obey the summons. He 
knew that these frequent visits to the Towers only fanned 
a flame it was his duty to extinguish. His love for Sybil 
had strengthened of late, partly because she was more 
charming than ever in the character of nurse — for a 
woman is never seen to such advantage as when engaged 
in the ministry of the sickroom — partly because his love 
was so utterly hopeless. The unattainable is always 
more desired than the attainable. The sweetest roses 
and the ripest peaches always grow just out of reach. 

Love, however, had done one good thing for Ather- 
stone. It had roused him from the careless, happy-go- 
lucky state of mind in which he had returned to Eng- 
land. He resolved to be an idler and a cumberer of the 
soil no longer. With the wish for work, work came — 
unfortunately, not always a natural sequence. An old 
college friend had recently been appointed to the editor- 
ship of the Rhadamanthine Review. John Methuen had 
always believed in Atherstone, and was still confident 
that there existed in him a vein of genuine metal, though 
it had never been rightly worked. 

“My dear fellow,” he said, “it is part of my business 
to unearth hidden talent. Join the fraternity of letters 
— the only true Republic. There is always room for men 
with the right stuff in them. Now I am certain there is 
a fair amount of that commodity in you, only you will 
persist in hiding it carefully out of sight. What is the 
good of wrapping your talent up in a napkin? Look 
here, I’ll give you a fortnight to write me an article for 
the Rhadamanthine. Choose your own subject and stud 
it to me. Come, is it a bargain?” 

It was. Atherstone chose for his subject, “The true 


306 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


relation of mind and matter.” It was an ambitious 
choice, but a fortunate one. The theories he enunciated 
were .remarkable for novelty and common sense, and the 
article attracted a good deal of attention in quarters 
where attention is not easily gained. Encouraged by 
this success, Atherstone threw himself with ardor into 
other literary work. Methuen was delighted. Not only 
had he enlisted a new and promising recruit, but he had 
also done his old friend a genuine service. Steady work 
was just what Atherstone needed at that time. It kept 
him from eating his heart out in idleness — it kept him 
from brooding on the unfortunate combination of circum- 
stances which had placed him in the antithetical position 
of Le Marchant’s unknown enemy and assiduous friend. 

His frequent visits to Dallas Towers were due to a va- 
riety of motives. At the time of Le Marchant’s seizure, 
it had devolved on him, as the nearest available medical 
man, to render what assistance he could. The case in- 
terested him, and as Le Marchant constantly averred 
that the local practitioner, Ernstone, did him more harm 
than good, Atherstone kept a sort of friendly supervision 
over that functionary. Le Marchant had taken a liking 
to Ralph, and always seemed glad to see him, though he 
said very little. Of course it would have been much 
wiser in Atherstone to go steadily on with his work and 
keep away from Dallas Towers— and Sybil ; for he did 
not deceive himself : he knew that the strongest motive 
which drew him there was the desire to see that charming 
girl. 

But the best of us are prone to error. We leave un- 
done those things which we ought to do, and do those 
things which we ought not to do. And so it will prob- 
ably be to the end of the chapter— or until the coming of 
the Millennium. Instead of telegraphing an excuse to 
Sybil and going on with his article, Atherstone dispatched 
a message promising to be at Dallas Towers that after- 
noon, locked up the unfinished MS., put himself into a 
hansom, and was driven rapidly to Euston Station. 

On arriving at Dallas Towers, he was at once ushered 
into Le Marchant’s presence. 


307 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“You sent for me, and here I am," he said, cheerfully, 
when they had greeted each other. “I hope, however, I 
have not been summoned in my character of doctor.” 

“I wanted to talk to you,” replied the other, curtly. 

Atherstone looked at him in some surprise. In health, 
Le Marchant was certainly better. The dreamy intro- 
spective expression that had clouded his glance was gone, 
his eyes had something of the keenness and fire of former 
days. The only indication of shaken health was the ner- 

us movement of his long, thin hands as he restlessly 
fingered an ivory paper-cutter which he had taken from 
the table at his elbow. 

The two men were alone in the library. Sybil was not 
at her usual post, and Atherstone glanced round the room 
in search of her with a look of disappointment. 

“Miss Le Marchant is well, I hope.” he ventured at 
last, as the other seemed indisposed to pursue the con- 
versation. 

“Oh, yes,” answered Le Marchant, impatiently. “You 
will see her at dinner. I asked her to withdraw, as I 
wished to speak to you alone.” 

“Yes,” assented Ralph, absently. An uncomfortable 
foreboding stole over him that Mr. Le Marchart’s confi- 
dences would place him in new difficulties. He seemed 
fated to be a repository for other people’s secret troubles. 

“Before I begin, will you give me your word not to 
divulge anything I may tell you?” 

Atherstone’s heart sank like a' stone. Le Marchant’s 
manner seemed to imply that the confidence about to be 
reposed in him was of a damaging, possibly an incrim- 
inating, nature. If so, would he be justified in keeping 
silence? If Lady Villebois carried out her threat of in- 
stituting legal proceedings against Le Marchant, and he, 
Atherstone, was compelled to give evidence in support of 
Miss Lowry’s case, the pledge he was now asked to give 
might weigh like a mill-stone about his neck. Le Mar- 
chant looked surprised at his hesitation. 

‘ Surely it is a very simple thing to ask. I would do as 
much for you, Atherstone.” 

“Very well, I promise,” was the reluctant answer. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


308 

“I am placed in a position of great difficulty, of possi- 
ble peril,” began Le Marchant, bending the paper-knife 
with his restless fingers and fixing an eager glance on the 
other’s face. “I want to ask your advice on a matter 
which concerns my daughter as well as myself. ’ ’ 

Atherstone started and changed color. A hope woke in 
him that possibly Le Marchant might be about to consult 
him on some business matter only. But this hope died 
out with his next words. 

“I daresay you will blame my conduct very severely,” 
went on Le Marchant, with a touch of his old irony; 
“men who have never been tempted are apt to be severe 
on men who have — especially when they have succumbed 
to the temptation. What I did was wrong, no doubt, but 
it seemed to me excusable — and, after all, who can justly 
define what is right and what is wrong? I have been a 
good landlord ; the Dallas estates are well-managed ; the 
farmers who rent the land grumble less than most farm- 
ers: and the laborers are housed infinitely better than 
they were in my uncle’s time. I think if I had to live 
my lj.fe over again I should not act differently.” 

“You would destroy Mr. Dallas’ will again?” 

The cool question had an electrical effect on Le Mar- 
chant. He sprang to his feet with an oath, and clutched 
the paper-knife as if it had been a dagger. The glitter 
of his eyes and the convulsive twitching of his lips 
alarmed Atherstone. He had been unwise to rouse thus 
a man over whose head hung the Damocles sword of 
paralysis. 

“Come, Le Marchant,” he said, rising and laying his 
hand on the other’s shoulder. “You are not going to 
stab me with that paper-cutter.” 

He took the harmless ivory toy from him and put it 
back on the table. 

“You were going to tell me a secret. I have suspected 
it these two months. I know it now.” 

“Who — told — you ? ’ ’ 

The words dropped painfully and slowly from his 
working lips. 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


309 


‘ ‘Lady Villebois told me something ; but I have stronger 
proofs than any she could give.” 

“You have proofs— you— what do you know about it?” 

“I witnessed the will you destroyed.” 

“You witnessed the will?” he repeated, stupidly. 

“Yes.” 

There was a moment’s silence. The two men looked 
each other full in the eyes. Both were very pale. Ather- 
stone’s face was stern, and there was a light in his eyes 
which made the other wince. He read contempt and 
condemnation in that steady glance. 

“Did you send for me only to tell me this?” said Ath- 
erstone at last. 

“I don’t understand you,” muttered Le Marchant, 
averting his eyes. “I have told you nothing. You are 
taking things for granted in an unwarrantable manner.” 

“Come! No verbal fencing. It is useless to attempt 
any evasion with me. I tell you I know everything !” 

“How long have you known it — whatever it is?” 

“Since the day before your illness.” 

“And yet you have come here, ostensibly as my friend !” 

“I have no wish to be your enemy — even now.” 

“Then you must be my friend ; you cannot be neutral, ” 
exclaimed Le Marchant, eagerly. “Will you keep silent? 
Will you remain passive? I ask no more. Lady Ville- 
bois is powerless without you. Come,” he went on, with 
growing excitement, “it is not much to ask. It involves 
no sacrifice on your part. Leave England until this has 
blown over. Lady Villebois is an old woman ; she can- 
not live forever. I do not fear Miss Lowry.” 

“Stop! Do you know that you are asking me to be- 
come your accomplice in this fraud?” 

“Fraud! Nonsense! You are too squeamish. I will 
make it worth your while to absent yourself from Eng- 
land for a few years. Come, name your sum. I am a 
rich man — and I can be generous. A few thousands more 
or less won’t make much difference to me.” 

In offering this shameless, coarsely-worded bribe, Le 
Marchant betrayed a lamentable want of discrimination. 
Atherstone was not a man to be insulted with impunity ; 


310 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


certainly not a man to be bought. For a moment, he 
stared at him as though he distrusted the evidence of his 
ears. Could it be that Le Marchant— Sybil’s father— was 
so sunk in the mire of fraud and falsehood that he disbe- 
lieved in the existence of honor in others? 

“You wish to bribe me into silence,” said Atherstone, 
with a hard ring in his voice. “I thank you for the com- 
pliment you pay me — but I beg to decline this flattering 
offer,” he added, ironically. 

“Then what do you mean to do?” retorted the other. 
He was too desperate to heed sarcasm. “Do you mean 
to ruin me? Do you want to drive me mad?” 

“On the contrary, I wish to help you, if I can.” 

A ray of eager hope shot into Le Marchant ’s eyes. After 
all, things might arrange themselves. If Atherstone 
could be persuaded or cajoled into concealing what he 
knew, all would be well. Had he known the powerful 
weapon that lay ready to his hand, he would have used 
it without compunction. But, acute as he was in mat- 
ters of business, he was often singularly dull in affairs of 
subtler nature. It had not entered into his calculations 
that Atherstone loved Sybil ; that his friendly attentions 
to himself were entirely due to his daughter’s influence. 
Had he known it, he would have appealed to Atherstone’s 
love instead of to his self-interest. As it was, he worked 
according to his lights. Money was his deity ; he could 
imagine none more powerful. 

“You will help me?” he queried, sharply. “I am glad 
to see you are reasonable. I have said I can be gen- 
erous; I — ” 

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Le Marchant,” he inter- 
rupted, haughtily. “Once and for all I refuse any bribe. 
In offering it, you insult me and degrade yourself.” 

“I assure you I did not intend an insult,” said Le Mar- 
chant, deprecatingly. “I thought — ” 

“Never mind what you thought. I repeat that I am 
willing to help you if I can. But my help must be given 
in my own way. As matters stand now, your position is 
this : If Lady Villebois establishes her case against you— 
as in all probability she will— you will be convicted of a 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


311 


fraud of a peculiarly ugly nature. You will be ruined 
not only financially but socially, and your wife and 
daughter will be ruined with you.” 

“You are frank !” ejaculated the other, dryly. 

“Yes; it is better to be frank in such a case as this. 
Now, I hope that by appealing, not to Lady Villebois, for 
I believe her to be inflexible — ” 

“Confound her!” muttered Le Marchant, under his 
breath. 

“But I am certain Miss Lowry would be generous,” 
Atherstone went on, disregarding the interruption. “She 
is a noble creature — she cares little, I imagine, for wealth 
or position.” 

“You think she might be induced to forego her claim?” 

“I should not advise her to do anything so quixotic — 
and Lady Villebois would scout such an idea.” 

“Then what do you mean? How are you going to me- 
diate between us?” cried the other, feverishly. 

“I think a compromise might be effected. Lawsuits 
never do an estate any good. The lawyers’ bill would 
be heavy, especially if — as Miss Lowry is not yet of age 
— the estate were thrown into Chancery.” 

“Compromise! I won’t yield an inch. Possession is 
nine points of the law. I defy Lady Villebois and Miss 
Lowry and all their works. I will never give up my 
claim to the estates.” 

“Then the matter is at an end. You say you will not 
yield : then I can do nothing. Miss Lowry is a generous 
woman, but her generosity must not be abused.” 

“You seem to be her champion,” sneered Le Marchant. 

“Perhaps you have a personal interest in establishing her 

claim. You mean to marry her.” 

** » 

Atherstone ’s lip curled. The coarse innuendo disgusted 
rather than angered him. With all his cleverness, what 
a contemptible creature Le Marchant was ! Illness had 
weakened him physically ; his daughter’s loving tend- 
ence had softened him in a manner, but the old Adam 
was latent in him still. What a mystery it seemed that 
a being of such ignoble impulses could be the father of a 
pure, kindly-hearted girl like Sybil ! 


312 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“Miss Lowry,” resumed Atherstone, purposely ignor- 
ing the other’s words, “has none but friendly feelings for 
your daughter. It would pain her to know that any re- 
flection of your wrongdoing should fall on an innocent 
head. I believe — nay, I am sure she would be merciful 
if you appealed for mercy. But, understand, I will not 
be a party to any injustice. Miss Lowry must know 
everything ; you must tell her how you have defrauded 
her.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

“You must take the consequences. But, if you are 
wise, you will follow the course I have pointed out. A 
compromise is the best thing you can hope for. If you 
had to do with Lady Villebois only, you would most like- 
ly fail to win any concession whatever. But Miss Lowry 
is neither hard nor revengeful. For your daughter’s sake, 
she will be willing to spare you. The exposure you have 
so much reason to dread may be averted, but Dallas 
Towers must be given up to its rightful owner.” 

“And I am to leave it a beggar, I suppose?” queried 
the other, bitterly. 

“Did Mr. Dallas make any provision for you in the 
will you destroyed?” 

“Yes ; a beggarly pittance of ten thousand or so.” 

“You call that a pittance !” 

“It is, compared with twenty thousand a year — my 
present income. ’ ’ 

“You preferred dishonesty and twenty thousand a year 
to honesty and five hundred a year?” 

“I did ; and many a man standing well with the world 
has thought and thinks the same — only he lias not broken 
the eleventh commandment : he has never been found 
out.” 

“I daresay Miss Lowry would give up ten thousand 
to you,” pursued Atherstone, coldly; “perhaps she 
might increase the sum, for she is generous. In point of 
law you would have no claim on her whatever. The fact 
that Mr. Dallas made a second will invalidates that under 
which you inherited : and, as this second will was de- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


313 


stroyed by you, he died practically intestate, and Miss 
Lowry is sole heiress.” 

Le Marchant made no answer ; he remained silent and 
sullen for some moments. He knew Atherstone’s words 
were terribly true — if the existence of this second will 
could be proved, he would forfeit even the “pittance” he 
despised. Vivien, as her grandfather's next of kin, 
would claim every acre of the estate, every shilling of 
James Dallas’ wealth. He mentally weighed the pros 
and cons of Atherstone’s plan. Such a compromise, if it 
could be effected, would take the sting of shame from his 
ruin, and yet he hated to yield. He longed to fight the 
matter out to the end, and win or lose all. 

But the indomitable will, the never-flagging energy of 
his early manhood, were broken and spent ; his physical 
powers had been severely taxed by the discussion, and 
some degree of reaction made itself felt as he lay back in 
his easy-chair. The listlessness of bodily weakness stole 
over him and dulled the keen brain of the man. Oh ! for 
one hour of youth and strength and courage — for the 
power to scheme, plot, conquer, as of old ! But no ; the 
wearied brain refused to work, the overstrained nerves 
gave way. He felt beaten, world-weary, hopeless. Phys- 
ical weakness did what all Atherstone’s arguments had 
failed to do. It convinced him that he was beaten at 
last. A sense of powerlessness, of utter failure, swept 
over him. He bent his head as if under the lash and fury 
of a hail-storm. 

Hiding his face in his hands, he burst into tears. Ath- 
erstone was shocked. Tears — even facile, feminine tears 
— always touched him ; but to see a man of Le Marchant ’s 
hard and inflexible nature crying with the abandonment 
of a child was terrible. 

“Le Marchant, for God’s sake don’t do that!” he ex- 
claimed, starting up and laying his hand on the quiver- 
ing shoulder of the man. “Some one may come in— your 
daughter may hear you.” 

“Let her!” sobbed the broken creature, “I don’t care. 
You have ruined me between you all— why don’t you 


314 


JAKE LUCIFER. 


finish he business? It would be a charity to put a pistol 
to my head. I’ll do it myself, if — ” 

“Come,” said Atherstone, sternly — he knew he must 
be firm; “no threats of that sort. Be a man. Make 
what reparation you can to Miss Lowry for the injury 
you have done her, and — ” 

“Do you think that meddling old woman, Lady Ville- 
bois, will keep quiet until after Sybil’s wedding?” inter- 
rupted Le Marchant, jumping to another subject with 
feminine inconsequence. 

It seemed as if with a woman’s tears he had adopted 
some of her erratic methods of thought. 

A shade crossed Atherstone ’s brow as he looked down 
at the speaker. His thin, sunken features, his reddened 
eyes, his twitching lips told not only of physical deca- 
dence but of failing mental power. Le Marchant, broken 
in health and shattered in nerve, appealed to his 'pity. 
But this question, though put with childish irritability, 
touched him yet more deeply. 

Despicable as he was, this hardened sinner had some 
love for his child. However painful to himself this allu- 
sion to Sybil’s marriage might be, he understood and ap- 
plauded the motive that prompted it. 

“When is the wedding to be?” he asked, in a low voice. 

“Next month — on the twelfth, I believe.” 

“I do not think Lady Villebois is likely to take any im- 
portant step just yet. But I will call on her to-morrow 
if you like, and — ” 

“No, no,” interrupted the other, hastily; “leave it to 
chance. Better not let her know how anxious I am to 
get Sybil safely married. Lady Villebois is a malicious 
old woman ; she might do something to break off the 
marriage— she might tell Ormerod that Sybil is no longer 
an heiress,” he added, with a cunning smile. 

Atherstone ’s dark eyes flashed on him a look of un- 
speakable contempt. 

“Is it possible you think Ormerod capable of breaking 
off the match for such a cause?” he exclaimed. 

“I do — most men would.” 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


315 


‘Then let me tell you that you misunderstand him 
completely. He would be incapable of such meanness.” 

“It would be better not to put him to the test.” 

Before Atherstone could utter the retort which rose to 
his lips the door opened, and Sybil advanced to greet him 
with outstretched hand, a bright smile of welcome on her 
lips and in her eyes. 


CHAPTER V. 

KISMET. 

The ensuing weeks passed quickly for Sybil. The 
monotonous days slipped away as uneventful and color- 
less days are apt to slip — unheeded and uncounted. 

Mrs. Le Marchant lived in a paradise of millinery. It 
gave her real pleasure to choose silks, handle laces, and 
study the effects of color and drapery. Sybil had never 
before seemed so important in her mother’s eyes, because 
her approaching marriage involved the purchase of a 
trousseau and gave Mrs. Le Marchant an excuse for 
spending much time and more money in providing her 
daughter with a superfluity of wearing apparel. 

What maternal affection was latent in Selina’s bosom 
manifested itself to the full during those weeks of prep- 
aration. On Sybil’s behalf she exerted the unerring taste 
and judgment she undoubtedly possessed in matters of 
the toilet. She spent hours of anxious thought in plan- 
ning effective morning, dinner, and ball dresses. She 
wrote long letters of directions to a certain high priest- 
ess of fashion whose skill was equally great in de- 
vising a gown, or in piling up etceteras into a mount- 
ainous sum-total at which husbands and fathers stood 
aghast. She made numerous journeys to town and ran- 
sacked the shops in Bond Street, exhausting the patience 
of many a long-suffering demoiselle or damoiseau de 
comptoir as she turned over the shining satins and deli- 
cate laces her soul loved. No Parisienne was ever harder 
to please. Her quick eye detected at a glance any defect 
in tint, form, or substance in silk or satin, velvet. or 


316 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


gauze. She was an artist in her way. and an iil-matcli- 
ing end of ribbon, a badly-cut boot or glove, an ungrace- 
ful drapery or ill-chosen combination of color gave her 
absolute pain, and not infrequently roused a righteous 
anger in her breast. 

Sybil always excused herself from accompanying Mrs. 
Le Marchant on these expeditions. Shopping tired and 
did not interest her. “She would rather leave everything 
to her mother. Papa would miss her. ” The latter plea 
was frequently urged, and Selina never expostulated 
when it was offered. A vague fear sometimes troubled 
her that, when Sybil was married, on her own shoulders 
would fall the burden of waiting on the invalid. If Ber- 
nard entertained any such idea, it must instantly be 
nipped in the bud ; meanwhile, as Sybil appeared quite 
content to devote herself to her father’s service, it w T as 
better to let her have her own way. 

Sybil sometimes vexed her mother by the indifference 
she displayed about this absorbing business of the trous- 
seau. Whenever, in a moment of expansion, Selina de- 
scribed some of the marvels then in process of construc- 
tion, the girl smiled and seemed to listen, but her eyes 
had a preoccupied, far-away look that betrayed her lack 
of interest in the subject. 

That grave, abstracted expression was very often seen 
on her face during those dull, autumn days. When 
alone in her own sitting-room she would sit quiet and 
thoughtful by the fireside with her hands clasped idly on 
her lap, and her eyes fixed dreamily on the red embers. 
An observant spectator — had one been present — would 
have detected a wistful sadness in those beautiful, dark- 
fringed eyes. Poor child ! Her life was very isolated 
just then, and her nature was not strong enough to bear 
either solitude or the weight of unshared anxieties that 
oppressed her. She would not admit even to herself that 
she was disappointed in Felix, but so it was. Her en- 
gagement had not brought her the full and perfect joy of 
which she had dreamed. Felix was so altered in man- 
ner : he looked stern and cold, he spoke so little to her 
when he came to the Towers. He was quite unlike his 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


317 


old self. When they were married, would he always be 
grave, always wrapped up in politics? How often she 
longed to pour out her heart to Vivien ! — the friend who 
had vanished so mysteriously from her ken. How she 
longed to confide to her the doubts and fears that haunt- 
ed her ! 

But time went inexorably on. The days and weeks 
drifted by, and the eve of her wedding-day found her 
still in a passive state of vague regret and disappointment. 
Ormerod was staying at Compton Magna. He had ridden 
over to the Towers that morning, and his manner and 
look chilled her to the heart. She shrank from him when 
he kissed her at parting, and a look of fear came into her 
eyes. When he had gone, she shut herself in her own 
room and sat there still and cold as a statute all the after- 
noon. She did not cry ; there was a dull, aching pain in 
her bosom, but the relief of tears did not come. Twi- 
light wrapped the room in shadow ; still she sat on with 
that statue-like immobility of lip and eye — the outward 
sign of the death-like coldness at her heart — transform- 
ing her soft, childish features into a mask of marble. A 
strange numbness crept over her. Life, movement, the 
power to feel seemed leaving her. The touch of Orme- 
rod ’s lips on her forehead had frozen all the blood in her 
veins. Her hands were icy cold, but she made no move- 
ment to warm them. A bright fire burned cheerfully in 
the grate, but she did not approach it : she had no desire 
for warmth. She sat on the sofa at the foot of the bed, 
moveless, almost pulseless, the whiteness of her face and 
hands accentuated by the dark, warm color of her gown. 
Darkness came, and found her still there in the same at- 
titude. The room was very quiet, only the sound of fall- 
ing cinders from the dying fire broke the silence ; the 
white drapery of the bed looked ghostly in the dim light ; 
her figure was indistinctly reflected in the long mirror, 
which caught a feeble ray from the low, red, flameless 
fire, and threw a shimmer of light on her white face. 

At last the death-like hush was broken. The dressing- 
gong sounded, and her maid knocked softly at the door. 
Sybil rose mechanically, and unlocked it. “She looked, 


318 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


for all the world, as if she was walking in her sleep,” 
was the maid’s subsequent comment on her young mis- 
tress’ manner during the performance of her evening 
toilet. Her curly locks were carefully arranged by the 
abigail’s skillful fingers; the white dinner-dress was 
donned, the betrothal pearls were clasped round her 
white throat, but she never vouchsafed a single glance 
at the mirror, or spoke a word to the maid, who watched 
her with the mingled curiosity and sympathy peculiar to 
her class. 

As Sybil glided noiselessly along the wide corridor, and 
down the broad staircase, she looked more like a spirit 
than a maiden of mortal mold. Her delicate features 
seemed to have a purer outline than of old ; her skin had 
lost its fresh and flower-like bloom— its present ivory 
pallor was as beautiful in its way, but the change gave a 
certain pathos to her aspect ; an expression not easy to 
read shone in the depths of her dark, dilated eyes. All 
-that evening she was silent and abstracted, answering 
briefly, in a low voice, when addressed, but otherwise 
taking no part in the conversation. 

Atherstone was the only guest staying at the Towers 
for the wedding : he was there by the special desire of its 
master. Had Mrs. Le Marchant been allowed carte 
blanche , she would have filled the house with her rela- 
tions and friends ; but Dr. Ernstone and Atherstone put 
their veto upon anything that might disturb or excite 
their patient. The wedding was to be a very quiet one. 
There were to be no bridesmaids, for, as Sybil could not 
have the bridesmaid of her choice (Le., Vivien), she re- 
solved to dispense with the attendance of the customary 
bevy of matrimonial aspirants. 

Atherstone watched Sybil closely that evening. Her 
manner puzzled him a good deal. His love for her was 
curiously free from any alloy of selfishness ; her happi- 
ness was far dearer to him than his own. But, after all, 
he was only human. He could not repress some jealous 
pangs, some rebellious murmurings against Fate as he 
watched her sweet, pale, wistful face. He loved her. 
She was dearer to him than the life which animated his 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


319 


beating heart. Did Ormerod love her as he loved her? 
Would Ormerod cherish her with the faithful, protective 
tenderness he would fold round her like a warm-lined 
mantle, shielding her from the chill storms of life? 

“All, Sybil, if to-morrow were to see you my wife, I 
would bring a smile to your sweet lips, a light into your 
beautiful eyes, for I love you so much that I would make 
you love me !” he thought, as he watched her sitting si- 
lent and stirless by her father’s chair in the library after 
dinner. 

Yes, it was a thousand pities Fate had so wofully 
tangled her threads in weaving the web of his and Sybil’s 
life. Atlierstone was bom to be a model Benedict. He 
would have made any reasonable woman happy, and the 
love of a gentle, warm-hearted girl like Sybil would have 
opened to him a new world of joy. Rooted in the rich 
soil of a quiet, contented domestic life, his vigorous, vir- 
ile character would have put forth a thousand gracious 
blossoms. Wife and children would have been to him 
like sunshine and soft air, smoothing away any acerbi- 
ties or harshnesses of manner, and rousing all the tender- 
ness dormant under his somewhat rugged exterior. 

But it was not to be. Sybil — his pearl of maidenhood 
— was not for him. Well, he must be content to see that 
priceless pearl given to one more worthy to win and 
wear it. 

But, in spite of a night spent in a struggle to battle 
clown Love and win the calm of Philosophy, it was diffi- 
cult to seem, impossible to feel, stoical when he stood, 
with Ormerod, waiting the bride’s arrival in the church. 
It had been difficult to shake his friend’s hand that 
morning and wish him happiness, but he had done it. 

Ormerod bore himself well during those moments (try- 
ing to the nerves of the hardiest) when the expectant and 
presumably happy bridegroom stands and faces the crit- 
ical glances of a congregation assembled to see two hu- 
man beings swear mutual fidelity until death parts them. 
The church was well filled, for, though the number of 
wedding guests was limited to a dozen of Mrs. Le Mar- 
cliant’s “dearest friends,” every one within driving dis- 


320 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


tance had come to see pretty Sybil married. Ormerod 
seemed quite indifferent to the scrutiny of the hundred 
or more pairs of eyes bent on him ; he was neither flushed 
nor flurried. He was pale, cool, and perfectly composed. 
No nervous twitch of lip or quiver of eyelid betrayed 
whatever feelings stirred him. 

It was Atherstone who manifested symptoms of mental 
perturbation. He was evidently uneasy ; he fingered the 
gardenia in his button-hole, fidgeted nervously with his 
gloves and handkerchief, and. finally, dropped his prayer- 
book with a crash just as a glimmer of white at the open 
church door told of the bride’s arrival. For a moment 
he lost his head ; the church, with its curious, expectant, 
whispering congregation, seemed to swim round him; 
the low, sibilant hum of hushed feminine tones sounded 
like the ominous murmur of a storm- wind that will pres- 
ently rise into a wild shriek of fury. Then a sudden des- 
perate calmness came to him ; he brushed his lips with 
his handkerchief to hide their twitching ; he looked up. 
His eyes fastened eagerly on the slow-moving white cloud 
gliding slowly toward him by Le Marchant’s side. 

Sybil had looked spirit-like on the previous evening; 
she seemed ethereal as a phantom now. Her face was as 
white as her gown, her dark-lashed lids were drooped 
over her eyes, her lips were colorless, and folded close in 
an expression rarely seen on living lips — the dead only 
have that set and passive calm. 

A horrible idea flashed through Atherstone ’s brain. 
Sybil — his sweet Sybil was dead ; this moving statue was 
not his bright, sweet-faced love, his pearl of price ; her 
soul had fled, and they were bringing the empty casket to 
give as a specter-bride to his friend. The bridal orange- 
blossoms were the “maiden strewments” of a virgin 
corpse ; the bridal veil was a shroud ; those fixed marble 
features were not the features of a living bride, but of a 
dead girl. No pulse of life beat in that shrouded form ; 
those heavy eyelids were shut forever, those pale lips 
were sealed in eternal silence. 

The mild, carefully-modulated tones of the rector’s 
voice enunciating the opening sentences of the marriage 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


321 


service roused him from this nightmare-vision of death 
to a. reality almost as terrible. The supreme moment had 
come. The irrevocable words were to be spoken. The 
woman he loved lived, but from that hour she would be 
dead to him. That wild fancy of his was typical of the 
life-long severance soon to be decreed between them. He 
was powerless to stop the relentless march of events. He 
could only watch and wait. 

His keen glance traveled rapidly over the group on 
which all eyes were centered : the bride and bridegroom, 
Le Marchant and the officiating clergyman. Mrs. Le 
Marchant, magnificent in mauve velvet, stood a few paces 
from her husband looking serenely elegant, placidly con- 
tent with herself and all the world. Sybil’s dress pleased 
her artistic eye ; there was not a single fold of drapery 
awry, not a flower too much, not a deficiency anywhere. 
Madame Maude had surpassed herself ; the trousseau was 
a success, and the wedding-gown was its crowning tri- 
umph. Selina’s cup of happiness was full to the brim. 

Ormerod’s face was calm, impassible, almost stern. 

After one quick glance at his pale bride, as she moved 
forward on her father’s arm to take up her position at his 
side, he averted his eyes and appeared quietly indifferent 
as the rector’s monotonous voice uttered the solemn words 
of the charge. 

Le Marchant ’s aspect told of suppressed excitement — 
so much Atherstone saw at a glance ; but, his attention 
once arrested, he watched him with absorbing interest. 
Never had he seen a face expressing such intensity of 
purpose : every muscle seemed braced to composure by 
sheer force of will. His eyes had a fierce, fixed bright- 
ness, his sallow cheeks were flushed, his lips tense, his 
thin figure was held stiffly erect. He followed the ser- 
vice with eager attention, shooting a piercing glance at 
Ormerod as the fateful question was asked, “Would he 
have this woman to be his wedded wife?” For a moment 
their eyes met; Le Marchant ’s were ardent, uneasy, fear- 
ful ; Ormerod’s tranquil, steady, and coldly contemptu- 
ous. 

“I will.” 


322 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


The words were spoken clearly, quietly : a half sigh of 
relief escaped Le March ant’s lips. Then his eyes fastened 
eagerly on his daug liter’s marble face, and a dusky flush 
mounted to his forehead. The question was repeated; 
there was an instant’s pause. The bride looked up with 
a startled, frightened glance ; she seemed to hesitate. It 
was a moment of vital import, and its full significance 
dawned at last upon her darkened mind. The icy com- 
posure of her manner thawed ; her lips trembled, a wave 
of color swept o\>er her pale face. Her troubled eyes 
rested on her father’s face. No compassion, no tender- 
ness was written on that thin, eager visage; his eyes 
seemed to pierce her, reading her thoughts and compel- 
ling to submission. The whole strength of his will was 
concentrated in one supreme, all-conquering effort. 

Sybil felt its impelling power ; a quiver passed over her 
frame, but she uttered in low and distinct tones the two 
irrevoci ole words: 

“I will.” 

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” 

Le Marchant stepped forward ; he stretched his hand to 
touch his daughter’s ; a smile was on his lips — a smile? 
no, a distortion — a horrible distortion dragging one side 
of his face in a downward, hideous grimace. The ex- 
tended hand dropped powerless, the wave of dull red re- 
ceded from his temples, his thin figure swayed — then fell 
prone, senseless, sightless at the bride’s feet. The sword 
had fallen. 

Mrs. Le Marchant uttered a faint cry and buried her 
face in her lace handkerchief ; Sybil, sick with terror, 
but too brave and perhaps too overwrought to show it, 
knelt down by her father’s prostrate form, and began to 
loosen his collar and cravat with her trembling fingers. 
Atherstone, always cool in an emergency, whispered a 
few reassuring words in her ear, and put her gently aside ; 
Ormerod, roused by the catastrophe to act as became a 
man in his interesting if trying position, took his bride’s 
hand and begged her in a low voice to leave the stricken 
man to Atherstone ’s care. For one terrible moment 
Sybil thought Death had swept into the church and car- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


323 


ried off a victim ; her father’s face, marred by that dis- 
figuring, mocking grimace, looked ghastly in its livid 
pallor; but Atherstone’s words quickly reassured her, 
and she passively submitted to be led away. 

The rector, whose practical experience had not fur- 
nished him with any precedent to serve as guide in the 
present difficulty, stood mute and motionless with his 
open book in his hand. What was to be done?— would 
the sacred rite be completed later on?— who would give 
away the bride? 

Ormerod saw the good man’s evident perplexity, and 
hastened to relieve it. 

“The service can goon when Mr. Le Marchant has been 
removed. Mr. Atherstone, doubtless, will give away the 
bride,” he said, quietly, as he passed him, with Sybil on 
his arm. 

The congregation, however, being unaware of this de- 
cision, were on the tip- toe of curiosity. A dozen conject- 
ures were whispered from one to the other. Every one 
concurred in pronouncing Mr. Le Marchant ’s seizure an 
event of evil omen for the young couple. All the young 
ladies averred that the wedding would certainly be post- 
poned — no girl could have the heart to proceed with the 
service after so terrible a scene. 

Meanwhile the helpless cause of all this commotion was 
borne into the vestry, where Dr. Ernstone and Ather- 
stone decided that there would be no danger in moving 
him at once to the Towers. An impromptu couch was 
arranged for him in one of the carriages that had brought 
the wedding-party to the church ; he was carefully con- 
veyed to his home, undressed, and put to bed, Atherstone 
tending him with a woman’s gentleness. 

Ormerod, having seen the carriage depart with its un- 
conscious burden, re-entered the church, and approached 
Sybil and her mother. The latter had recovered her 
composure — tears were injurious to her complexion, and 
a sense of her maternal obligations prompted her to exert 
her power of self-command. A strong revulsion of feel- 
ing was manifest in Sybil. Passive indifference had 
given place to quiet resolve. There was a firm look 


324 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


about her lips, a gleam of settled purpose in her large 
eyes. As Ormerod looked at her, he was conscious of 
the change, and, strange to say, he never admired her 
more or liked her better than at that moment. 

“Are you ready, Sybil?” he inquired, offering his arm 
to lead her to her place. The rector, still standing in the 
chancel, book in hand, glanced inquiringly round in 
search of Atherstone. His former perplexity returned. 
Some one must give away the bride ; failing Atherstone, 
who could be pressed into the service? 

Sybil rose and took Ormerod’s proffered arm, whisper- 
ing as she did so : 

“Yes, I am ready — quite ready to go home — to my fa- 
ther.” 

“You wish the wedding to be put off?” 

“Yes.” 

Ormerod turned to Mrs. Le Marchant, and hurriedly 
informed her of Sybil’s decision. 

“My dear child,” expostulated that lady, in a reproach- 
ful whisper, “do be reasonable. Why should the wedding 
be put off? — your father is in no danger. Think how 
people will talk 1” 

“My mind is made up, mamma,” Sybil answered, 
calmly. “Mr. Gregory,” she added, turning to the rec- 
tor, “there will be no wedding to-day — I refuse to go on 
with the service.” 

Mrs. Le Marchant was at her wit’s end. What was to 
be done? Here was Sybil — the usually docile Sybil — as- 
serting herself in an unexpected manner ; calmly ignor- 
ing her wishes and disregarding her advice, and making 
her, Selina Le Marchant, ridiculous in the eyes of all her 
friends and acquaintances ! This mariage rompu was a 
serious social disaster; it would be the talk of the coun- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


325 


ty for months, and she would have to endure her friends’ 
half-ironic compassion and evade the awkward questions 
they would shower on her with what skill she might. 
Was ever woman so unlucky as she! Many anxious 
hours had been spent in arranging this wedding, in plan- 
ning this ungrateful girl’s trousseau : she had unselfishly 
devoted her best energies to Sybil’s service only to meet 
with this cruel vexation. The wedding once postponed, 
who could say when it might come olf? Selina, as we 
know, had her own reasons for desiring tc see her daugh- 
ter married and out of the way. 

“I am sorry to vex you, mamma,” said Sybil, seeing 
her mother’s disappointment and guessing its cause. “I 
will explain everything to Felix when we get home.” 

“If you are obstinate, Sybil, I suppose you must have 
your own way,” was her cross answer. “Let us get 
away from the church ; every one is staring at us.” 

The eyes of the congregation followed them curiously 
as they retreated into the vestry — not for worlds would 
Mrs. Le Marchant have braved the fuller publicity of the 
aisle. In total silence they were driven to the Towers. 
Ormerod watched Sybil with new interest — she no longer 
seemed a cipher ; there was a womanly self-possession 
about her that impressed him powerfully. She had lived 
through the crucial moment where “brook and river 
meet” — the brooklet of girlhood had passed into the 
“river’s broad expanse,” the “deep, still, gliding stream” 
of womanhood. That brave, steady light still shone in 
her eyes, awing even her mother into quiescence. Her 
manner was calm, her child-like features placid, no sign 
of weakness was visible in her : she looked like a woman 
whose mind is fully made up. 

The long avenue seemed interminable to Ormerod. as 


326 


LtKE LUCIFER. 


they drove toward the Towel's, but the house was reached 
at last. Atherstone met them at the entrance. He looked 
pale and worn. 

“How is my father?” inquired Sybil. 

“He is still unconscious, but, I believe, in no actual 
danger,” answered Ralph, in alow voice. “Congratu- 
lations, no doubt, will seem out of place just now,” he 
added, glancing at the supposed bride and bridegroom, 
“but accept mine. I wish you both every happiness.” 

“Thank you,” suid Grmerod, dryly ; “but the congratu- 
lations are prematura We are not married yet.” 

“Not married !” repeated Atherstone, in amazement. 

“No ; the wedding has been postponed.” 

A faint color rose on Sybil’s cheeks, and her eyes were 
bent on the ground as she passed on toward the great 
drawing-room. Ormerod followed her in silence, leaving 
Mrs. Le Marchant to explain matters as she chose to 
Ralph. 

The drawing-room was bright with blazing fires and 
perfumed with the rich but sickly sweetness of tube- 
roses and stephanotis, for the hothouses had been pillaged 
to deck the house for the wedding. Ormerod closed the 
door and went up to Sybil , who stood calm and erect 
near one of the long windows, looking out on the gray 
sky, the leafless trees, and the green sweep of turf. As 
he approached, she turned and looked full at him. 

“Felix,” she said, holding out her hand — there was a 
tinge of regal stateliness in the gesture that was strangely 
at variance with the child-like grace he had always asso- 
ciated with his pretty, silly little Sybil— -“Felix, you and 
I have been saved from a great sorrow — from a great sin 
this morning,” she said, hesitating as if the words did 
not come easily; “we have both made a mistake— for 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


327 


weeks I have felt you did not love me ; I only knew it 
yesterday. ’ ’ 

“I would have tried to make you happy,” he answered, 
in a low, unsteady voice, taking her offered hand in his. 
He attempted no denial of her words ; he could not^ jug- 
gle with the truth while her clear eyes rested on him. 

“And you would have been, miserable yourself,” she 
rejoined, with a sad smile. “I could not accept such a 
sacrifice. I give you back your liberty — gladly. No,” 
she added, quickly, as he was about to interrupt her, “I 
am not so generous as you think. I do not love you, Fe- 
lix — and — and — ” She paused, and the hot color rushed 
into her face, dyeing it crimson. 

“I understand,” said Ormerod, bending down and kiss- 
ing the slender fingers he held ; ‘ ‘you love some one else 
— and I am dismissed.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

CONCLUSION. 

Le March ant was moved up to London, ostensibly to 
be within reach of the best medical advice, but really 
that Mrs. Le Marchant might be on the spot to oppose 
the claim made by Lady Villebois on Vivien’s behalf. 
Atherstone had been compelled to take Mrs. Le Marchant 
into his confidence, as her husband showed no signs of 
recovery. The time of grace had expired, and Lady 
Villebois refused to listen to his request for further delay. 
If Sybil chose to break off her engagement with Mr. Or- 


338 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


merod, that was, she argued, no reason why the armistice 
she had charitably granted should be lengthened into a 
truce. Right was right — she was sorry to hear her worst 
enemy was placed hors de combat, but the lawsuit must 
commence at once. She and the lawyers were confident 
of success — nothing now remained but to secure Miss 
Lowry’s formal consent to their plans. 

Sybil had some idea that changes of fortune were im- 
minent ; her mother had dropped some hints, and Ather- 
stone admitted, when she asked the question in plain 
terms, that her father might possibly lose some portion 
of his wealth. Le Marchant himself was dead to all 
worldly perplexities and cares. This second paralytic 
stroke had deprived him of all mental as well as physical 
power. His body was as helpless as that of a week-old 
infant ; his mind feeble to idiocy. Sybil’s presence alone 
brought a faint gleam of intelligence into his vacant 
eyes ; he would try to articulate some word when she ap- 
proached, but the power of utterance was gone — he could 
only mutter indistinct sounds which the poor girl made 
vain efforts to comprehend. It was terrible to her to 
watch those fruitless struggles for speech, heart-rending 
to see the look of dog-like affection in his dim eyes as she 
hung over him with that divine, semi-maternal love felt 
by most women for creatures dependent on them. 

Those winter months spent in a hired house in a quiet 
square near Hyde Park were to Sybil full of calm, peace- 
ful happiness. After the crisis of that terrible wedding- 
day— a day which, even now, it pained her to recall— her 
life flowed uneventfully by, and she was content. Little 
by little she accustomed herself to the altered relations 
between her father and herself— his childishness, his 
helplessness ceased to pain her; she loved him as a 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


329 


mother loves a sickly deformed infant ; she waited on 
him, tried to amuse him, sung him little crooning songs. 
In the future was a dim promise of "fuller happiness — 
sometimes her thoughts flew onward to the time when 
the promise would be fulfilled gloriously. But as she told 
herself, in the hours when these dreams were brightest, 
she had so much to learn before she was worthy to share 
the life of the man she loved — he was so clever, so noble, 
so altogether above her level. True love is ever humble, 
and poor little Sybil thought herself hopelessly inferior to 
the idol :he had set up for herself. Many a dry, uninter- 
esting book she plodded through during those winter 
months ; many a weary hour she spent in endeavoring, 
with the help of a grammar and dictionary, to teach her- 
self Latin — for it seemed to her that a woman who was 
ignorant of that noble language was entirely unfit to be 
the wife of a rising author like Ralph Atherstone. She 
never guessed that her ignorance and utter simplicity 
were but added charms in his eyes. 

Honest Ralph toiled his hardest in the long winter 
evenings, contriving, however, to snatch an hour or two 
from his literary labors to devote to Sybil and her help- 
less charge. He had a definite object in view which 
marvelously sweetened his work. Poverty was now the 
only obstacle between him and happiness. Not a word 
of love had yet been spoken to Sybil, but the two under- 
stood each other wonderfully well, and Atherstone 
felt strong enough and patient enough to conquer any 
number of difficulties hindering his way to success and 
fortune. 

Ormerod spent the winter in New York, writing regu- 
larly to Sybil in spite of les convenances. The General 
Election in the early spring brought him home with all 


330 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


speed. Much to his own surprise — for his absence from 
England had, he supposed, lost him all chance with the 
electors of Compton Magna — he was returned as the rep- 
resentative of that ancient borough by a small majority. 
Success at such a time was doubly welcome ; a long-clier- 
ished ambition was realized, the career he desired above 
all others opened bright and fair with promise, and a 
hope was fostered that the future might redeem the j)ast 
—that a certain grave under a certain cedar-tree might 
give up its buried treasure — that love would wake from 
its death-like sleep to deathless immortality. 

He resumed his former friendship with Atherstone, 
and soon discovered who had supplanted him in pretty 
Sybil’s heart. Man-like, he had been for a while just a 
trifle sore at her defection — he had always been so certain 
of her loyalty ; but he was wise enough to hide his mor- 
tification, and soon to be heartily ashamed of it. 

April came, with its bright skies and soft airs. The 
hard, shining buds of the chestnut-trees in Kensington 
Gardens were bursting, and the delicate, crinkled, fan- 
shaped leaves felt their way out into the sunshine. The 
grand old gardens, despised by Fashion, but loved of 
dreamers, were a very favorite resort of Sybil’s on bright 
mornings, when the yearning for fresh air and sunlight 
was strong on the country-bred girl. She delighted in 
the secluded nooks, where nurses and their charges sel- 
dom penetrated. She liked to pace along the quiet paths 
near the Ranger’s Lodge, a spot almost as solitary as any 
in Dallas Park. 

One brilliant morning, she betook herself to this favor- 
ite resort, with a book in her hand— rather a dry-as-dust 
book it w T as, but she had heard Ralph speak of it in com- 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


331 


mendatory terms, and she resolved to read it religiously 
through, conscientiously trying her best to understand 
its metaphysical profundities. The air was so balmy, she 
thought it would be delightful to take a chair under one 
of the trees, and there bend all her energies to the task 
in hand. But she had not read a dozen lines before her 
eyes were attracted to a figure approaching along the 
path near her— the figure of a tall woman, dressed very 
simply in black. Sybil started to her feet, with a little 
cry cf joyful recognition. 

“Vivien !” she cried, dropping her book, and hurrying 
forward, with both hands outstretched. “Oh, Vivien, 
where have you been hiding all this time?” 

Forgetting everything in the joy of seeing her again, 
Sybil threw her arms round the well-remembered form, 
and kissed Vivien on both cheeks, much to the edification 
of a couple of nurse-maids and a baker-boy loitering on 
his way from Kensington to Westbournia. 

“Now I have found you, I shall take good care you do 
not escape me again,” she pursued, holding the other’s 
hand and gazing up affectionately in her face. She 
thought Vivien much altered in appearance; not less 
beautiful (for her correct features, and pure if pale com- 
plexion, still satisfied the artistic eye), but graver, sadder 
and less youthful — the quaker-like simplicity of her at- 
tire was perhaps answerable for the last impression. Her 
dark-gray eyes were clear, steadfast, truthful, and truth- 
compelling as ever, but they had lost the dreamy expres- 
sion that once lent a peculiar charm to their glance. 

“Are you glad to see me, Vivien?” she asked, timidly. 

Vivien smiled that full-hearted smile of hers which 
lighted her eyes and irradiated her whole face like mid- 
day sunshine illumining deep, still water. 


332 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


“I was on my way to see you,” she answered, quietly; 
“but I am glad we met here. We can talk without in- 
terruption. I have so much to say to you, Sybil. ” 

“To say to me?” 

“Yes; but, first, I wish to know how your father is— I 
heard of his illness only yesterday. ’ ’ 

“He is better — he suffers no pain — but he will never 
recover ; so the doctors say. ’ ’ 

A troubled expression came into Vivien’s eyes. She 
remained silent and thoughtful for some moments. 

“Sybil,” she said at last, “all these months I have been 
living among very poor people — people who have a hard 
struggle to keep the wolf from the door. Long ago, I 
told you that these people are my people. I am of their 
class: for I was brought up among them, and lived as 
they live. All my life I have longed to help them,” she 
went on, earnestly, “but no real help can be given with- 
out money, and I have always been as poor as they. Now 
I may perhaps be rich, but — ” 

She paused in painful embarrassment. 

“Yes, dear,” ventured Sybil, gently. “Tell me every- 
thing. Have you come into a fortune?” 

“Not exactty,” said Vivien, averting her eyes. “Lady 
Villebois tells me that I am no longer poor, but — ” 

“Go on, my dear!” cried Sybil, gayly. “Why do you 
stop? I am dying of curiosity. ” 

Thus adjured, Vivien told her with many a pause and 
stammer the story of her father’s sin — softening the de- 
tails considerably ; but, in spite of her, hard facts thrust 
their ugly heads through the veil she tried to fling over 
them, staring at the shrinking girl with Gorgon eyes that 
froze her into silence. 

At first this revelation seemed to stun Sybil ; but being 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


333 

a very practical little person, and tolerably clear-headed, 
she quickly understood the position and faced it bravely. 

“Then Dallas Towers belongs to you,” she said at last. 

“So they say ; but, remember my claim is not yet es- 
tablished. Sybil, do you know that I am not yet twenty- 
one? — though I must seem old to you,” she added, grave- 
ly. “Lady Villebois threatened to make me a ward in 
Chancery,” she went on, smiling, “but I begged for 
mercy. As I am a minor and have no legal guardian, -I 
don’t think any steps can be taken in this affair until I 
am of age. Sybil, I want you and Mrs. Le Marchant to 
keep this unhappy business secret — I want you to help 
me to do what is right.” She spoke quickly, her face 
betraying sudden agitation. “Lady Villebois says I ought 
to fulfill my grandfather’s wishes— to exact the uttermost 
farthing of his fortune — but I cannot do it — I—” 

She stopped, her increasing emotion made speech diffi- 
cult. She looked earnestly into Sybil’s face: her lips 
quivered, her eyes filled. 

“I will do whatever you wish — whatever you think 
right,” answered the other, gently. Then, with a sud- 
den flash of inspiration, she said, “We will ask Mr. Ath- 
erstone’s advice — he shall be umpire — he always knows 
what is best to be done. And now,” she added, brightly, 
“that is settled. Let us put this miserable business aside. 
I have so much to tell you, Vivien.” 

Arm-in-arm the two girls paced up and down the path 
until the bell of St. Mary Abbott warned them it was 
time to separate. Vivien had heard in a mutilated form 
from Lady Villebois the story of Sybil’s strange wed- 
ding-day ; but now she learned the whole truth. Never 
of a reserved disposition, Sybil poured out unstintingly 
the stream of confidences so long pent up in her own 


334 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


bosom : she told Vivien of Ralph Atherstone’s literary 
successes ; expatiated on his wonderful cleverness ; 
avowed at once her hopes and her fears, her love and 
her unworthiness. 

Vivien listened with a smile on her lips and a light in 
her eyes. Perhaps Sybil’s litany of love had an echo in 
her own heart, perhaps hope stirred there after its long 
winter sleep as the sap stirred in the trees. Felix was a 
free man now — did he love her still? Would he come to 
her, and claim her with love’s sweet imperiousness? 

Lady Villebois at first set her face resolutely against 
the compromise suggested by Ralph Atherstone on behalf 
of Mrs. Le Marchant and Sybil. Her mettlesome spirit 
rebelled at the idea of surrender. This claim of Vivien’s 
to Dallas Towers and its broad acres had filled her 
thoughts so exclusively of late that the subject had taken 
deep root in her mind. Vivien was at last obliged to ex- 
ert herself and boldly declare that she would not drag 
the story of Bernard Le Marchant ’s sin into the fierce 
light of a court of law. 

“He has been punished enough,” she said, quickly, 
when Lady Villebois had recounted for the hundredth 
time the enormity of his offense; “what good would be 
served if I stripped him of everything? He is a wreck in 
mind and body — he needs all the luxuries money can buy ; 
his wife and daughter jwould suffer more than he, were I 
to do as you wish. Mr. Atherstone’s advice is sound — a 
compromise is the only way out of the difficulty.” 

“And Dallas Towers?” 

“Dallas Towers will be mine— that, I think, is just; 
the money will be equally divided between the Le Mar- 
chants and myself. Now, dear Lady Villebois, we have 




LIKE LUCIFER. 


335 


had our first, and I hope our last, disagreement,” she 
added, bending down and kissing her old friend’s cheek. 
“Let there be peace between us in future.” 

“On one condition only.” 

“Name it.” 


“That you return to Rolleetone House; these flying 
visits by no means content Lie. I want to have you here 
always. Promise not to return to Mr. Muffles and his 
back-shop. Come, Vivien, your old room awaits you. 
Stay here to-night. ’ ’ 

Vivien smiled ; a faint color stole over her face and 
neck. She glanced quickly round the familiar room — 
they were seated in the long drawing-room. It was a 
great contrast to her late surroundings in Camberwell, 
and her artistic eye reveled in the quaint beauty of its 
arrangement. 

“Confess that you are tired of cataloguing musty vol- 
umes,” went on her ladyship, mercilessly, as she followed 
her glance. “I read it in your face. You begin to see 
that you can be helpful to those who need help without 
condemning yourself to exile among them. I have no 
doubt Mr. and Mrs. Muffles are excellent people, but do 
they quite satisfy your social needs? Are they quite on 
your mental level?” 

“Perhaps not,” answered Vivien, slowly. It was a 
great admission for her, but she could not truthfully say 
that her life during the past winter had been altogether 
satisfactory. 

“You will come back to Rollestone House?” persisted 
the other, determined to make the most of her opportu- 
nities. 

Vivien was evidently in a tractable mood ; it would be 


336 


LIKE LUCIFER. 


as well to bind her by a promise that would hold her 
when less amenable to reason. 

“Do you really want me?” asked the girl, hesitatingly. 

“Of course I want you— I have missed you more than 
I can say. If my mind had not been sustained by excite- 
ment, life would have been unendurable. This affair of 
your grandfather’s will was a godsend to me,’’ she added, 
with a malin smile. 

“That is finished and done with,” retorted Vivien, de- 
cisively; “on that subject the last word has been said.” 

“So be it: but you have behaved like a female Don 
Quixote.” 

“Not at all. The publicity of a trial would have been 
terrible to me. I would rather sacrifice the whole in- 
stead of half my fortune to keep my parents’ lives sacred 
from the prying eyes of the world. Do you think I could 
bear to hear their dear names bandied about from lip to 
lip — the story of their sorrows, the tragedy of my father’s 
death, made the subject of conversation in half the 
drawing-rooms in London?” 

“Dear child, forgive me. I understand now. You are 
right and I am wrong. I cry peccavi. I have been a very 
hard-hearted old woman.” 

History proverbially repeats itself. Months ago a phase 
of the same subject was being discussed by the two ladies 
when their conversation was interrupted by the advent 
of a visitor. 

It was so now. The door was thrown open, and Wilson 
announced : 

“Mr. Ormerod.” 


✓ 


THE END. 




THE GREAT BERWYCK 
BANK BURGLARY 


£ jlbU, L >*s-k ^ 


BY 

J. G. BETHUNE 

Author of 11 The Third Man” “ Hands Up,” “ The Eye 
of Hercules,” “ The Cipher 1 F\ ” 11 The Royal 
Ruby,” etc., etc. 


Specially written for “ Once a Week Library 


New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
1893 









Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by 
Peter Fknelon Collier, 

in the Oldce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 




THE GREAT BERWYCK 



On the 'morning of May 27, George Mcllvaine, cashier 
of the Berwyck Bank, was counting out to a customer 
the proceeds of a check, a task which he had per- 
formed many a time, and with an expertness gained 
by long experience. 

The customer took the small pile of bills, which had 
been flashed out too rapidly for him to enumerate, and 
walked to the desk by the outer window, that he might 
count them before going out on the street. 

It therefore became the turn of the gentleman directly 
behind this customer to be served. 

The cashier ^looked up in the face of the bright-eyed 
man, dressed in a smart business suit, who stepped briskly 
in place in front of the counter. 

The manner and expression of the cashier’s face said 
as plainly as could so many words : 

“Well, sir, I am ready to serve you.’’ 

Instead of offering him a note to be discounted or 
a check to be cashed, the caller asked in a low, business- 
like tone : 

“Is the president of the bank in?” 

“Mr. Dillingham is back in his room,*’ was the reply 


4 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


of the official, indicating by a flirt of his head the loca- 
tion of the “Directors’ Room ’’ at the rear of the modest 
building. 

“Thank you,” said the stranger, walking quickly along 
the open space to the door, on which he gently knocked. 

“Come in,” called out the bank president, sitting alone 
behind his desk, and looking inquiringly at the man as 
he stepped within. 

“Mr. Dillingham, I believe?” remarked the visitor. 

“Yes, sir.” 

The caller handed a card to the president, who, study- 
ing it a moment, laid it down and extended his hand. 

“Ah, Mr. Fagan, I was expecting some one from your 
place ; glad to see you ; help yourself to a chair ; place 
it near my desk.” 

The cordial invitation was obeyed in full, the two gen- 
tlemen being quickly placed so that no one could over- 
hear what passed between them. 

Mr. Humphrey Dillingham again glanced at the card, 
on which was printed: “Pixley Fagan, National Detect- 
ive Agency, Leonidas Wyxtree, President.” 

“Of course you come in response to my note to Mr. 
Wyxtree,” was the remark of the banker., 

“Yes, sir; you mailed it by rapid delivery, yesterday 
forenoon ; it reached our office last night, so I was able 
to be on hand before ten o’clock this morning.” 

In making this explanation, Detective Fagan was not 
wholly truthful ; that is to say, he did not tell all. He 
had arrived in the little country town of Berwyck the 
previous evening, and had not been idle since then. 

Perhaps he committed a little oversight when he an- 
swered the remark of the elder gentleman. More likely, 
however, it was not an oversight. 


BANK BURGLARY 


& 


“Your bureau lias the reputation of being quite prompt, 
and I think I may say successful, in these matters/’ 

“Thank you; we have generally given satisfaction to 
our patrons ; I hope we shall do so in this case. Your 
letter did not give the particulars, Mr. Dillingham, of 
the loss your bank has suffered. ’ ’ 

“No ; I only referred in a general way to the burglary ; 
it didn’t strike me as worth the time to go into particu- 
lars in the letter, inasmuch as there would be much left 
to be told over again. ” 

“Quite right.’’ 

President Dillingham had wheeled his cushioned chair 
around, so as to face his keen visitor, and twiddled his 
spectacles while he talked freely but confidentially. 

The man who employs a detective to do a delicate job 
for him must act like the patient with the physician — 
keep nothing back. The banker’s manner showed that 
he was in an unbosoming mood, for the occurrence 
which had brought Detective Fagan to Berwyck was the 
most startling in the whole history of the institution. 

It was a favorite custom of the officer to ask questions 
instead of allowing a patron to tell a rambling story. By 
that means he learned what he wanted to know, and no 
more. He separated the wheat from the chaff, often 
finding grains which otherwise would have remained 
hidden. 

“What is the extent of the bank’s loss, Mr. Dilling- 
ham?’’ 

“One hundred thousand dollars.’’ 

“Is that the exact sum?’’ 

“To a penny. The funds were done up in ten pack- 
ages, each containing ten thousand dollars. Those alone 
were taken.’’ 


6 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“And of course considerable was left?” 

“Yes; or our doors wouldn’t be open to-day. While 
it will cause us much loss, it cannot affect the solvency 
of the bank itself. It means simply an assessment in- 
stead of a dividend for the stockholders.” 

“Which is anything but a pleasant prospect for them. 
When was the money taken?” 

“Night before last.” 

“How was it done?” 

‘ ‘I hope you will be able to find out for us : it means a 
good fee for your agency,” replied Mr. Dillingham, with 
a smile, and still twiddling his spectacles. 

“Excuse me for expressing myself awkwardly. I will 
be more direct. I noticed from a glance at your bank 
vault that you use the combination lock, the kind not now 
so popular as it was a few years ago. ’ ’ 

“Yes; it is secured by a combination of three letters. 
We have been thinking of buying the time-lock arrange- 
ment, but unfortunately have done nothing but think."” 

“How many possess the combination?” 

‘ ‘It looks as if several hitherto unsuspected parties have 
it, for the vault was not injured in the least. Whoever 
opened it did so by using the combination regularly em- 
ployed.” 

“How many were supposed to have it?” 

“Mr. George Mcllvaine, the cashier, and myself — no 
others.” 

“You changed it yesterday?” 

“The horse being stolen, we proceeded to lock the 
stable. ’ ’ 

“How many watchmen have you?” 

“Only one, an elderly man named Walker Otter.” 

“How long has he been in your employ?” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


7 


‘‘Ever since the bank was organized, twelve years 
ago.” 

“Have you any suspicions of him?” 

“It is impossible ; he is as honest as the day itself; I 
would as soon suspect myself. ’ ’ 

“What does he know about the burglary?” 

“Nothing.” 

“How is that?” 

“He slept through it all.” 

“Are you sure of that?” 

“Mr. Mcllvaine and I questioned him closely ; we could 
not escape the belief that he told only the truth when he 
declared he knew nothing. No one could have counter- 
feited the consternation he showed.” 

“Why did he take a nap on that night?” 

“Because, as he confessed, it has been his custom for 
years. He is stiff and rheumatic, and in his panic he 
owned that there hadn’t been a night for a long time that 
he hadn’t stretched out on the settee in the outer office and 
slept through without a break till daylight. He kept up 
his invariable practice, because he knew of no reason for 
changing it. ’ ’ 

“Then, as he seems to be eliminated from the problem, 
let us look elsewhere. How about the cashier?” 

“I cannot suspect him,. He is a married man, with two 
children and an excellent family. He has been a leading 
church member and officer for ten years.” 

“I wish, Mr. Dillingham, that that could be accepted as 
proof of his integrity. I will say, however, that I like 
his looks.” 

“When did you see him?” 

“A few minutes ago : it was he who answered my ques- 
tion as to where I should find you. ’ ’ 


8 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“He is above suspicion,” was the decisive remark of 
the bank president; “it is impossible to suspect him.** 

“Very well, let him go, then,” said the detective, 
whose “letting go” of the individuals named must be 
taken in a figurative sense. He had no intention of cast- 
ing them out from his calculations until he was through 
with them. “The only other employee that I observed be- 
hind the counter was your bookkeeper. ’ ’ 

“Yes, he is the only one, except on special occasions, 
once a quarter, when we call in help ; but we have had 
no extra help on the accounts for several weeks.” 

“But this bookkeeper — what is his name?” 

“Frank Dixon.” 

“He struck me as a bright young man.” 

“He is; the only son of a widowed mother, her sole 
support, and most competent in every respect.” 

“How long has he been in your employ?” 

“About three years; but what reason have you for 
suspecting the bookkeeper? He was never intrusted 
with the combination.” 

“Not openly; but seeing the vault or safe opened and 
closed every week day through all this period, he may 
have managed to catch it unnoticed. ’ ’ 

Plainly this suggestion startled the banker. He had not 
thought of it before. 

“It may be possible, but I hope not.” 

‘,‘So do I, for the sake of Mr. Frank Dixon himself. 
Do you know whether he has any bad habits?” 

“No—” 

The intonation of this single word showed that the 
banker had broken off something he was on the point of 
saying. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


9 


“You interrupted yourself, Mr. Dillingham; what 
were you about to say?” 

“Mr. Dixon is a caller upon my niece. Miss Mina 
Crosslands. That shows in how high regard he is held 
by me.” 

‘ ‘And of course by Mrs. Dillingham. ’ ’ 

“There is no Mrs. Dillingham; that is, so far as I am 
concerned. I am a widower without any children, but 
my niece is dearer to me than the apple of my eye. ’ ’ 

“Naturally enough,” responded Detective Fagan, with 
an inclination of his head and with the feeling that some 
interesting complications were dimly opening out before 
him ; “let’s dismiss him from the matter.” 

This was another device of the visitor, who resolved 
in the same moment that he would undertake several 
investigations of which he gave no hint to the banker. 

To his surprise, however, Mr. Dillingham did not seem 
disposed to give up the startling idea that had been sug- 
gested. He continued to twiddle his spectacles and to 
look down at the floor. 

“Can- it — be possible — ?” he repeated in a low voice, 
as if communing with himself. 

Detective Fagan’s piercing eyes rested on the handsome 
pale face. He was studying it intently. 

“Do you think?” asked the banker abruptly, looking 
up, “that it could have been Mr. Dixon?” 

‘ ‘At this stage of the business I do not accuse any one : 
it is too soon for that. ’ ’ 

“But your suggestion that he might have got the com- 
bination from the cashier or me— why, it opens a world 
of possibility. Heavens ! what will my niece think when 
she learns it?” 

The visitor did not express the thought that came to 


10 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 

him— “Maybe she already knows it— perhaps her knowl- 
edge is a guilty one ; such things are not impossible 
where love holds the reins.” 

“This burglary is known to the directors, Mr. Dilling- 
ham?” 

“Yes ; we bad a meeting yesterday afternoon, when I 
laid the matter before them.” 

“What was done?” 

“Nothing, except to indulge in a good deal of vigorous 
language.” 

“Some things were proposed?” 

“Lots of them. The first idea was to hang the watch- 
man, and the next to offer a reward, but when it became 
clear that that would be ineffective unless very large — 
say ten thousand dollars — it was dismissed as too expen- 
sive a luxury. Then one suggested the offer of a good 
sum with the promise that no questions would be asked. 
That, however, was too much like compounding a 
felony. Finally, it was decided that I should be author- 
ized to employ the best detective service that could be 
engaged.” 

“Was not your letter to us written before that action?” 

“It was; I told the directors that I was so well satis- 
fied what their decision would be and that it was the best 
thing to do that I had discounted their action and had 
already sent for a detective.” 

“How did that strike them?” 

“At first they were inclined to withdraw their author- 
ization, but concluded to let it stand.” 

“You and the cashier are the only ones knowing the 
old combination ; that is, you were believed to be the 
only ones. Who generally opened and locked the door 
of the vault?” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


11 


“The cashier. Rarely do I reach the bank until ten 
o’clock or a little before. Now and then, on special 
occasions, I have come down early enough to attend to 
that. More frequently I stay long enough after bank 
hours to close the safe, or vault, as we prefer to call it.” 

“You have never noticed anything peculiar in your 
bookkeeper’s manner?’’ 

The reply seemed prompt, but the detective observed 
the instant’s hesitation on the part of the banker. 

“I do not recall anything of the kind.’’ 

“Were the directors enjoined to secrecy?’’ 

“We made a pledge to keep the matter from the public. 
Our employees have been cautioned also, even to the 
watchman, and I think no one has broken his promise.’’ 

“Has no customer of the bank made any refernce to 
it?’’ 

“Not so far as I know — hold! I had forgotten it. A 
half-hour before you came I was standing behind the 
counter while the cashier was arranging business, when 
some one asked me if I had heard anything, and, when I 
shook my head, said it was too bad.’’ 

“Who was lie?’’ 

“That’s the odd part of it. I was so pre-occupied that 
I was looking at the wall behind him, and cannot recall 
him to save my life.’’ 

“It’s a small matter, anyway,’’ was the off-hand re- 
mark of the detective ; “ it is possible that he referred to 
something else. Anyway, it would be strange if some 
of the many who know the facts did not leak. Who is 
your new watchman?” 

The question was fired at the banker like the ball from 
a rifle. 'He started, smiled faintly and said : 

“1 fear you will think I have done a foolish thing.” 


12 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“I don’t know as yet what you have done.” 

“I hired a watchman yesterday who began his service 
last night, and yet I never saw nor heard of him before, 
and he is an entire stranger in Berwyck. ” 

The detective indulged in a low whistle. 

“That sounds odd, but what is your explanation?” 

The remark of the visitor was a compliment to the 
banker, for it implied that, however strange his course 
might seem, he had a reasonable explanation for it. 

President Dillingham felt the delicate flattery, and 
spoke more at ease, for he was beginning to like the de- 
tective : 

“I was so disgusted at the result of employing home 
talent that I could think of none in Berwyck to whom I 
would give the trust. I telegraphed to my friend, Presi- 
dent Belden, of the Shawmere Bank of your city, to send 
me a reliable watchman. He replied by telegraph that 
he had just the man, and he would reach Berwyck by the 
six o’clock train. Sure enough he did, bringing with 
him a letter from Mr. Belden.” 

“May I ask what the letter contained?” 

“The highest recommendations possible; he said that 
the bearer, Kneeland Ely, had been their watchman for 
five years ; that he had proven his courage by beating off 
three burglars who made an attempt to rob their bank ; 
that no bribe could tempt him to betray his trust, and 
that I might consider myself fortunate in securing his 
services. There was no discounting such a recommenda- 
tion as that; and, after consulting with Mr. Mellvaine, 
the cashier, I engaged him, and he is now on duty.” 

‘It seems to me,” said Detective Fagan, “ that if this 
— what did you say his name is?” 

“Ely— Kneeland Ely.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


13 


“If this watchman, Kneeland Ely, was such a prize for 
you, he would be equally valuable to the Shawmere 
Bank, and I don’t see why Mr. Belden was willing to 
part with him.” 

“Naturally that thought occurred to me, and Mr. Bel- 
den did not forget to give a reasonable explanation. 
Watchman Ely’s wife died last week, and it so broke 
him up that he told Belden he would have to leave the 
city for some months, until he could pull himself to- 
gether. The associations of his home and surroundings 
were intolerable, but he was too poor to make such a 
change without securing a situation where he could earn 
something. He resigned several days ago, and Mr. Bel- 
den was looking about for something of the kind for the 
man when my telegram reached him. The poor fellow 
will always regard it as a direct interposition of Provi- 
dence. ’ ’ 

Without commenting on this singular story, Pixley 
Fagan said : 

“Will you be kind enough to let me see Mr. Belden’s 
letter, if it is within your reach?” 

Mr. Dillingham, after a little fumbling, produced the 
missive and handed it to his visitor, who scrutinized it 
closely for a few moments. Then he passed it back, 
without reading its contents. 

“I only wished to see the handwriting,” he explained. 

“Are you satisfied?” 

“There can be no question as to that letter having been 
written by Horatio Belden, president of the Shawmere 
Bank. Our house keeps an account there, so that I may 
say his handwriting is as familiar to me as my own. 
What Belden says goes.” 


14 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“You have no criticism on my action in employing 
this watchman on such a recommendation as that?” 

“On the contrary, \*)u would have been remiss had you 
not done so, but he is quite sure to have an easy thing of 
it for some time. The Berwyck Bank will receive no 
more burglarious visits for a good while. ’ ’ 

Detective Fagan rose from his seat, as if he had noth- 
ing more to ask, but, at an inquiring glance from the 
banker, sat down again. 

“You remarked some minutes ago, Mr. Dillingham, 
that you occasionally called in an accountant to help 
your regular bookkeeper. About how often in the 
course of a year does this take place?” 

“Every three months, when we have our quarterly 
statements to make ready. ’ ’ 

“And do you always employ the same assistant?” 

“Yes; we have needed such help only for the last two 
years, and on each occasion we used the same person.” 

“How long ago did you tell me it was since he was last 
engaged in the bank?” 

The president reflected a moment. 

“Between two and three weeks.” 

“Will you give me this assistant’s name, and whatever 
is worth knowing about the gentleman?” 

“I cannot do that,” remarked the banker, with an odd 
smile. 

“You cannot ! I do not understand you. ” 

“The party about whom you inquire is not a regular 
bookkeeper, but calls here when needed, and whatever 
services are rendered are gratuitous. ’ ’ 

“But his name— what is that?" demanded the de- 
tective, with a touch of impatience: “I must know his 
name.” 


15 


BANK BURGLARY. 


“It is not a he” said President Dillingham ; “the party 
about whom you are inquiring is a woman. ” 


CHAPTER II. 

“WHY THIS SIGNALING?” 

It was not often that Detective Fagan showed surprise, 
but he did in this instance. 

The possibility of the bookkeeper’s assistant being a 
woman had not occurred to him until the declaration 
came from President Dillingham. The additional state- 
ment, that the lady assistant gave her quarterly help 
without charge, was interesting. 

But the banker had no wish to mystify matters. The 
relief he felt from the great loss the bank had suffered 
was only temporary. He now spoke with a gravity be- 
fitting the occasion. 

“The assistant is Miss Crosslands, my niece. She 
charges nothing for her help, because she does the work 
from choice, being fond of that sort of thing, and with 
the necessary leisure at command. She is a skillful 
accountant, and her services are valuable. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘I do not doubt that, or you would not avail yourself 
of them.” 

“She is always pleased when the time comes round for 
her to take her place behind the desk and show Mr. Dixon 
the way to straighten out his accounts. When I spoke 
of paying her for her work, she was quite offended. She 
told me, however, that she wouldn’t object to a present 
from me,” added the banker, with a smile; “and she 
received it, of course.” 


16 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“How much did you gain by the proceeding?” 

“I think my niece is ‘in’ each time about a thousand 
per cent.” 

While this aimless conversation was going on, Mr. 
Detective Fagan was putting this and that together. 

A superficial survey of matters directed suspicion to- 
ward Dixon the bookkeeper. He might prove innocent, 
but, at this stage of the proceedings, he was the individ- 
ual to be investigated. 

The bank president had volunteered the statement that 
Dixon was a caller upon his niece, Miss Crosslands. It 
was she who spent a few days every three months in the 
bank as the assistant of the bookkeeper, who was an 
admirer of hers. 

Within the past few weeks she had been thus employed. 
During that period, as in the former instances, she must 
have seen the safe door opened and closed more than 
once. 

Some young women are wonderfully keen. Their in- 
nocent stare hides an amount of knowledge little sus- 
pected or dreamed of by other folks. 

It was not impossible that Miss Crosslands had man- 
aged to learn the bank combination from her uncle with- 
out his suspecting it, and that, too, without watching 
his movements. 

What was easier than for her to do this by a little 
cunning natural to her sex? 

Having gained the important secret, how readily it 
could be passed over to her lover ! 

Thus the labyrinth opened out before the detective. 
But speculation might go on forever and lead nowhere. 

It is not difficult for the detective to theorize, but all 


BANK BURGLARY. 17 

the theorizing in the world can accomplish nothing : ac- 
tion must do that. 

It would never do to let Mr. Dillingham suspect the 
thoughts which ran through the officer’s mind regarding 
the interesting niece of whom he had spoken. Investi- 
gation in that direction must be along different lines. 

“Mr. Dillingham, I must ask that you will send for 
the watchman,” said Fagan, with after hardly a break 
in their conversation. 

The request evidently surprised the bank president. 

“I think Mr. Ely is asleep at this hour, since he was 
on duty last night, but I will do as you wish. ** 

“I do not mean Mr. Ely, but the other one— the old 
watchman. I presume he is also asleep,” added Fagan, 
with a smile. 

“His home is only a short distance off ; I will request 
Mr. Dixon to notify him.” 

The caller had not suspected that it would necessitate 
the taking of the bookkeeper from his work in order to 
attend to such a slight errand. Berwyck had not yet 
reached to the dignity of metropolitan ways. 

The president stepped out of the room for a moment, 
and when he came back remarked that the old watch- 
man would soon be there. 

“My presence may embarrass him,” said Fagan; “so 
while he is here I will keep out of sight. I presume 
that closet will serve my purpose?” he added, glancing 
at the place where the president was accustomed to hang 
his hat and outer coat when spending the day in this 
room. 

Without waiting for a reply the officer bounded up and 
drew back the door. The key was in the lock, but not 
turned. 


18 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“This will answer/’ remarked Fagan, coming part 
way back to his chair, but not sitting down. 

“But what am I to do with Otter when I get him 
here?” asked the somewhat puzzled banker. 

“Question him about the bank burglary: you are 
greatly interested; you are not sure you have all the 
particulars; you have thought of something else you 
want to ask him, and therefore you proceed to pump 
him.” 

“But,” continued the banker, “I don’t catch the 
meaning of all this. I have already repeated to you 
the statements made by the stupid fellow : why call him 
here to repeat them?” 

“I want to study him, his words, his looks and his 
manner, while he is answering your questions. You 
know, Mr. Dillingham, there is a good deal in that— 
sometimes. It might embarrass him, as I said, for me 
to join in the examination, or to be present while it is 
going on.” 

“Very well. Ah, there he is !” 

The knock on the door was timid. Fagan, with a cat- 
like bound, was in the closet and had the door drawn 
almost shut by the time Mr. Dillingham, with liardlv 
any perceptible hesitation, called out : 

“Come in!” 

It was the old watchman, rheumatic, partly bent and 
very meek, who slouched into the room, with the air of 
a man expecting a summons to his own execution. 

“Sit down, Walker,” said the official, kindly, for de- 
spite the impatience he felt with his former employee, 
he could not shut out a feeling of pity when he looked 
upon his distressed countenance. 

President Dillingham motioned to the chair just 


BANK BURGLARY. 19 

vacated by tlie detective, and Otter slumped into it, in a 
state of collapse. 

Fagan had shifted the position of the seat so that it 
gave him the precise view he wished. He could look 
straight into the old man’s face while the countenance 
of the banker was in profile. 

The blank darkness of the closet where the officer 
was concealed enabled him to do this without a possi- 
bility of being seen himself. Indeed he would have felt 
no fear with a person tenfold as observing as the watch- 
man. 

“Walker,” said the president, “I have sent for you 
that I might ask a few questions about the unfortunate 
affair of 1 he night before last. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir,” was the meek response; “I would give the 
world, Mr. Dillingham, if that never happened ; I would 
indeed, sir. If there’s anything — ” 

“Never mind about that; regrets are worth nothing 
now. You admit that it has been your custom to go 
asleep, say about ten o’clock each evening, when you 
were on duty?” 

“I think it — that it was between nine and ten — a little 
earlier than the time you say.” 

“It makes no difference; and on the night of the rob- 
bery you slept straight through until daylight?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you noticed nothing unusual during all that 
time?” 

“No, sir.” 

“The outer door was locked, just as you locked it after 
taking charge of the building?” 

“Yes, sir; them folks must have had keys that was 
oiled, so as not to disturb me.” 


20 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“There was no need of their oiling the keys. The first 
you knew of what had been done was when I sent for you 
yesterday forenoon and questioned you?” 

“Yes. sir; and if you had shot me I couldn’t have been 
more s ’prised.” 

“Did you sleep sounder than usual?” 

“I must have done so; I guess the medicine — ” 

“You admit that you slept every night, and it wasn’t 
likely there was any -difference in the depth of your 
slumber. Have you told any one about it?” 

“Nobody except my wife, and she promised to say 
nothing. You see I had to make her some explanation 
of why I was discharged. I thought I would say it was 
because I was drunk, but she knows I never drink. Mr. 
Dillingham, do — you think — they will hang me?” 

“It would serve you right if they did, but inasmuch 
as that wouldn’t bring back the money, you will not be 
harmed, provided you keep your mouth shut and tell no 
one what has happened— remember, ” added the presi- 
dent, with marked emphasis, “you must tell no one; you 
must not converse or allow any one to talk to you about 
the occurrence. ’ ’ 

“You needn’t have any fear about that.” 

Mr. Dillingham could think of nothing more to ask the 
old man, and told him he could go. Repeating his ex- 
pressions of remorse, the wactliman shuffled through 
the door with the help of his heavy hickory cane. 

The next instant Pixley Fagan emerged from the 
closet and resumed his seat. 

“Well, what do you think of him?” inquired the 
banker. 

“Stupid, but honest, is his epitaph; we may as well 


BANK BURGLARY. 


21 


dismiss him from the calculation. No use of pumping 
that well.” 

All the same, however, the sharp-witted detective 
made the declaration with a mental reservation. 

Whether it was the manner or the words of the old 
man, or both, cannot be said of a certainty, but Pixley 
Fagan had caught something which started his ever-busy 
thoughts in a new channel. 

Despite his own words and the caution of the president 
to the watchman against talking with any one, supple- 
mented by the promise of Otter to hold his mouth 
sealed, the detective resolved that he would try his 
hand at pumping the “dry well.” 

“No; there’s no use of bothering him,” assented Mr. 
Dillingham; “I asked him ten times as many questions 
yesterday as I did to-day ; but the substance of all his 
replies is that he was asleep when he should have been 
awake : therefore he knows nothing. The best and the 
only thing he can do is to keep quiet, for he can’t open 
his mouth without putting his foot in it — helloa ! come 
in.” 

This response was to a brisk knock on the door. Had 
Detective Pixley wished to leap into the closet he could 
pot have done so in time to avoid being seen by the new 
caller, so promptly did he obey the summons to enter. 

Accordingly, the officer kept his seat and looked at the 
man who, hat in hand, entered with the salutation : 

‘ ‘Good-morning, Mr. Dillingham ; I hope I am not 
intruding,” he added, with a glance at the visitor, and 
hesitating whether to advance further or to withdraw. 

“Not at all; come in.” 

The man seated himself in one of the directors’ chairs, 


22 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


but at a distance of a dozen feet from the president’s 
desk, and near the door by which he had entered. 

“Mr. Brown,” said the banker, addressing his visitor 
under the impression that he was doing a clever thing by 
thus veiling is identity, “I think I can arrange it about 
the paper you offer ; of course I shall have to look into 
the matter of the collateral. ’ ’ 

“Thank you,” said the detective, quick to catch on ; “I 
trust you will find it all right ; it will be a great accom- 
modation to us.” 

“You will excuse me a moment while I hear what Mr. 
Ely has to say : he is the new watchman that I have en- 
gaged.” 

“Ah,” remarked the officer with a smile and slight 
nod toward the visitor; “I am sure you have taken a 
wise step. ’ ’ 

Common gratitude ought to have led Mr. Kneeland Ely, 
the new guardian of the bank building, to acknowledge 
this compliment, but he sat mute, as though the senti- 
ment was a little too finely drawn for his full compre- 
hension. 

“Well, Kneeland, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. 
Dillingham, kindly. 

“I called, please, sir, to ask whether any one else has 
the keys to the outer door. ’ ' 

“Why do you ask that?” inquired the banker, in 
some surprise ; “have you any cause for suspicion?” 

“No, sir; but when you gave me the keys that Otter 
had been using I ought to have asked you. I just want 
to know, so there can be no mistake about it.” 

“Mr. Dixon, the bookkeeper, Mr. Mcllvaine and myself 
have each a key that will admit us through the outer 
door.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


23 


“What I supposed, but I wanted to be sure of it. And 
no one else has such a key?” 

“None that I am aware of except — you understand .” 

There was a world of significance in this remark. It 
was a cute reference to the parties who had entered not 
only the building but the vault of the bank. Mr. Dil- 
lingham acted as though he did not wish “Mr. Brown” 
to suspect the meaning of his words. 

He therefore cast a knowing side-glance at “Mr. 
Brown,” and gave the new watchman the benefit of & 
faint smile. 

Not to be behind his employer, Kneeland Ely replied 
with a big wink of his left eye and a nod of his head : he 
was not to be caught napping. 

The face of Detective Fagan was as expressionless as 
the blank wall behind -him. 

And now, had there been a fourth party in the direct- 
ors’ room who was alert and quick of perception, he 
would have noted an extraordinary thing. 

Mr. Dillingham turned partly toward his desk to search 
for some paper. Catching sight of Detective Fagan’s 
card, he shoved it in his vest pocket : he did not wish 
that any outsider should see that, nor did he mean to 
disregard the officer’s request that his presence in Ber- 
wyck should not be known to any one else. 

During the minute that the banker was thus occupied 
lie took no note, as a matter of course, of his visitors. 

Detective Fagan and the watchman looked straight at 
each other, and both smiled. Then the former made a 
slight signal with one of his hands. The other replied 
at once. 

It suggested two mutes talking with each other by* 
means of the fingers of one hand. 


24 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


The back of the banker, being toward the watchman, 
the latter smiled and gesticulated more freely than the 
detective, for he was secure against any possible dis- 
covery. 

The interchange went on with great rapidity for a few 
seconds. 

Despite the blank stare which these two men gave each 
other, when they first met in the directors’ room, it was 
evident they were not strangers to each other. 

Somewhere else they had been thrown into each other’s 
company, and long enough, too, to become acquainted. 

It was fair to suspect that this meeting had been pre- 
arranged, else why this signaling? 

One of the men seemed to be giving the other orders, 
though it would be hard to say which emitted and which 
received them. 

Mr. Dillingham suddenly faced about. As he did so, 
Kneeland Ely rose to his feet, thanked him for his infor- 
mation and passed out. 

And again the face of the detective was as expression- 
less as the blank wall behind him. 


CHAPTER III. 

“hb emitted a low whistle.” 

That night was balmy, with a gentle breeze blowing. 
It had been showery during the day, so that the new 
moon was partially obscured by flying clouds, which 
rendered its light treacherous and uncertain. 

Detective Fagan was in Berwyck in the character of 
a commercial drummer for a large clothing house. In- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


deed, it may be said that the character was not wholly 
assumed. 

A certain firm in the metropolis had experienced more 
than once the benefit of his services in that direction. 
The head of the establishment was an old friend of 
Fagan’s, they having been associated from boyhood. 

When an order reached the house in New York from 
some town in Minnesota, or Texas, or California, signed 
“Bolus,” the senior partner well knew from whom it 
came. 

Fagan declined to receive the commission he well 
earned, but now and then he could not refuse the 
handsome suit of clothes sent to his residence from the 
wealthy clothing firm. 

In the course of the day. “Mr. Bolus” took three 
moderate orders in Berwyck, and forwarded them to 
New York. When night came he resumed operations in 
another line. 

It has been intimated that this person was not a 
stranger in Berwyck. Although no one in the place 
recalled the fact, yet he had spent a week there a couple 
of years before when engaged upon a counterfeiting case. 

During the afternoon he strolled through the town 
loitering on the outskirts and acquainting himself with 
what is called among the farmers the “lay of the land.” 
He located the handsome residence of President Dilling- 
ham, and the more modest home of the bookkeeper and 
the cashier. 

When night closed in he was more familiar with the 
town than were a good many people that had spent all 
their lives there. 

Leaving the hotel at a late hour, he sauntered along 


26 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


the principal street, as though out for a stroll before 
turning in for the night. 

As was his custom, he carefully scrutinized every per- 
son whom he met, for a man following his profession 
must be observant at all times, to save himself from 
going astray. 

There was little to excite interest, though hardly a 
face was lost upon him. 

Suddenly he met a couple in whom he felt an interest. 

They were Frank Dixon, the bookkeeper of the bank, 
and Miss Mina Crosslands, niece of President Dillingham. 

The former was recognized at once, but he had never 
before seen the young lady. 

They were so absorbed with each other that they, or 
rather he, did not notice the officer. So the latter 
managed to turn about and stroll after them without 
attracting attention. 

The officer had no means of knowing whence they 
came, but judged they had been spending the evening 
with a friend, and her betrothed was now escorting her 
home. 

He managed to approach near enough to overhear 
some of their conversation, but they were talking in 
low tones, and most of what they said was lost. 

Turning into the quiet and more fashionable street, 
they gradually approached the home of the young lady. 
Few people were on the avenue at that hour, and Fagan 
placed himself near the couple. 

The detective of the story generally gets close enough 
to the suspected parties to catch everything said, with- 
out being observed himself; but in real life such an 
exploit is rarely accomplished, for the reason that a 


BANK BURGLARY. 


27 


man or woman needs to be only half on guard to frus- 
trate the attempt. 

If the couple had spoken in little louder voices, or had 
their faces been turned toward instead of away from the 
officer, he might have kept the thread of their conversa- 
tion. 

But had they faced him, they would have noticed his 
attempt to play the eavesdropper. 

The lovers walked slowly, while he kept at a respect- 
ful distance, intently listening and on the watch. 

“Can it be possible, Frank?” 

As the young lady asked this question she turned her 
head sideways and looked up in the face of her compan- 
ion. Her musical voice and the position of her mouth 
caused the words to be wafted back to the ears of the 
detective. 

The tones of Dixon were lower and of deeper voice. 
Fagan did not catch a word, but was quite sure he an- 
swered her question in the affirmative, for she quickly 
used the feminine expression : 

“It is awful ; I would rather die.” 

Again his response was inaudible. Then they walked 
in silence until opposite the gate leading to her home. 

Now, two lovers had no need to be in low spirits. It 
ought to have been the other way with these, for they 
were young and deeply fond of each other. 

There must be some unusual cause for their depression. 

That cause could be but the one thing— the bank rob- 
bery. It cut them both fearfully close. 

“They may have conspired to take the money for 
themselves, and now that the deed is done are filled 
with alarm, and perhaps remorse. Consummated crime 
is not half as rosy as imagination paints it.” 


28 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


The moon came from behind the clouds, and showed 
the figure of President Dillingham standing on his own 
porch, smoking. 

He was evidently waiting for his niece. Seeing him, 
and in view of the lateness of the hour, Dixon parted 
with the young lady at the gate, instead of accompany- 
ing her to the door. 

The uncle waved his hand in salutation of his em- 
ployee, who returned it in a somewhat more subdued 
style, but neither spoke. 

“I hope he doesn’t recognize me,” thought Fagan, who 
had made a few unimportant changes in his personal 
appearance. “Dixon is more likely to identify me.” 

The halt of the couple for a few seconds at the gate 
caused the detective to pass close to them. While doing 
so he glanced away, as though he saw something across 
the street which interested him. 

At the moment he was nearest them they held their 
peace, but just before he came up and immediately after, 
they exchanged a few sentences. * 

“You haven’t uttered a word, Frank, to any one?” 

“No, and shall not. Do you think he suspects?” 

“I’m sure he does not.” 

“You are certain there is nothing in your manner 
likely to arouse his suspicions?” 

“I could not be more careful. Little does he think 
that I never slept a wink last night, and shall hardly 
sleep to-night. ” 

“This will never do; you must keep a brave heart— ” 

Those were the last words that Fagan caught. He 
heard the murmur of voices, but nothing was intelli- 
gible. Still looking across the street, as though his inter- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


29 


est centered there, he was able, over his shoulder, to 
watch the lovers. 

Miss Crosslands passed through the gate, which her 
escort opened for her, and bade him good-night. He 
lifted his hat, turned about and walked rapidly back 
toward his own home'. 

The detective would have been glad to follow him, for 
he was in the mood to believe that the least trifle might 
give him one of the clews he was seeking. 

Such a course, however, would have been imprudent. 
Dixon would notice the act, and it would arouse his sus- 
picion. 

The first duty of a detective in shadowing a party is to 
make certain that he himself is neither shadowed, nor 
an object of suspicion to the one under surveillance. 

Fagan continued forward until he arrived at a cross 
street. A few blocks brought him into the avenue where 

! young Dixon made his home with his widowed mother. 
Sauntering along in the same aimless manner, Fagan 
remained upon the opposite side of the street, with his 
whole attention fixed upon the humble cottage where 
lived the suspected young man. 

No one was in sight. The lower part of the house was 
in darkness, but a light shone from the upper front 
room. 

A quick glance to the right and left still failed to show 
any person. Stepping back in the shadow of the doorway 
of a store, where the glare of the street-lamp could not 
reach him, the detective waited and watched. 

If the young man was in his room, the light would soon 
be extinguished. If the glow continued, he was not 
there. 

The curtain was down, so that, had the position of the 


30 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


watcher been more favorable, he could not have caught 
sight of the interior. 

Five, ten minutes passed, and there was no change. 
Then the shadow of a person suddenly appeared on the 
curtain, passing across it like the figure on the slide of 
a magic lantern. 

But it was the form of a woman that glided behind the 
screen. 

Brief as was the glance of the watcher, he recognized 
it as the outlines of an elderly person. 

“It’s his mother,” was his conclusion ; “she is waiting 
for him.” 

As if in confirmation, the curtain was now hastily 
drawn up and the figure of the old lady was seen for 
a minute as she looked out on the still spring night. 

Her action was that of one expecting the coming of 
some one who came not. 

Detective Fagan shrank back, though he knew it was 
impossible for any one in her position to see him. 

The woman held her place only a moment and then 
withdrew, first pulling down the curtain. 

“He hasn’t returned home, but where is he?” 

Manifestly nothing was to be gained by staying where 
he was, in the shadow of the door. Fagan decided to 
carry out the original purpose he had in view when he 
left the hotel. 

But at the moment he took a step forward he heard 
some one near him, and drew back. 

It was one of the town policemen who was approach- 
ing with heavy step, and was not a dozen paces distant. 

The detective was annoyed,, for this boded trouble. 
His own position was such that the officer was likely 


bank: burglary. 


31 


to call him to account, and more than likely to “run 
him in. ’ ’ 

Nothing serious would result, beyond the inconven- 
ience and delay. If he was compelled to give an account 
of himself, and it should not prove satisfactory, he had 
only to appeal to President Dillingham, whose word 
would secure his release. 

But to be locked up would interfere with several plans 
he had in mind. 

He had laid out considerable “business” for to-night, 
and to have it extinguished in this fashion would play 
the mischief with his plans. 

He therefore shrank back as far as he could in the 
shadow of the door, hoping the guardian of the peace 
would, pass him unnoticed. 

So he did, swinging slowly by, looking neither to the 
right nor to the left, and probably seeing nothing in any 
direction. 

All would have gone well but for an unexpected 
occurrence. The officer had passed a little way, when 
the window over the store and directly above Fagan’s 
head was raised. Evidently the owner of the place lived 
there. 

“Helloa!” he called in a guarded voice to the police- 
man, who stopped short and looked around and up. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“He’s in the doorway below.” 

“W/io’s there?” 

“The burglar; he has been there a half-hour trying to 
bore his way through the door. Quick, and you’ve got 
him !” 

Detective Fagan was in for it. He saw he must do 
one of two things : wait and quietly surrender (with a 


32 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


night’s incarceration as a certainty), or make a break for 
liberty. 

He was a sprinter, and decided to try the break. 

Darting out of the door, he sped down the street like a 
deer. Crack ! crack ! sounded two pistol-shots, and the 
lumbering policeman plunged after him like a bull. 

The shots which he fired were meant to hit, too, for 
Fagan heard the whistling of the bullets close to his ears. 
By and by another passed, also uncomfortably close. 

The fugitive knew he could distance his pursuer in a 
fair race, but he dreaded being headed off by the other 
officers that were sure to be attracted by the firing. 

The acquaintance he had made with the city now 
served him well. After running a short distance along 
the pavement he darted across the street, still speeding 
swiftly. 

He noticed the raising of windows, the thrusting out 
of heads and the excitement caused by the pistol-shots. 

But he was fast drawing away from his pursuer. 

Darting around the first corner, the fugitive dropped 
to a walk. He was in danger of meeting some other 
policeman, who, if he saw him running, would be sure 
to call him to account. 

Fagan’s quick gaze showed him no one resembling an 
officer, and he indulged in another burst of speed, which 
quickly took him to the next corner, around which he 
passed at the same deliberate pace as before. 

It was well he did so, for within ten paces he came 
face to face with a burly blue-coated officer. 

The latter scrutinized him sharply, and, to forestall any 
troublesome questions, the detective opened the ball. 

“I think I heard some one shooting a pistol,” he re- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


marked, in a scared manner; ‘'did you notice it, 
officer?” 

“Where did you come from, young man?” asked* the 
policeman in turn, not fully satisfied with his questioner. 

“I came round the corner, right back yonder.” 

“Who are you, anyway?” 

“Richard Bolus, commercial traveler for the best cloth- 
ing firm in the country. If you can help me get the 
order for the suits of the force in Berwyck, why I’ll 
make it all right with you. What’s the prospects, 
officer?” 

“Get along with you!” replied the policeman, hasten- 
ing on in the direction whence came the sounds of firing. 

Pixley Fagan followed directions, and was soon beyond 
danger of further molestation. 

Fifteen minutes later he passed slowly by the bank 
building which had been the scene of such a striking 
occurrence less than forty-eight hours before. This was 
the objective point of his excursion. 

Glancing up and down the street he paused a moment ; 
but just then a pedestrian came in sight, approaching at 
a hurried pace. Fagan continued his stroll, until the 
stranger disappeared, when he stood a while, looking 
keenly up and down the street. The coast at last 
seemed clear, and, turning about, he came at a brisk 
pace toward the bank again. When opposite, he 
glanced sharply to the right and left, and emitted a 
low whistle, to which the response was instant and 
satisfactory. 


34 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


CHAPTER IV. 

“SH !” 

The reply to the detective's guarded signal was a soft, 
creaking sound, as if made by the cautious opening of a 
door. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to the bank, 
as shown in the glare of the street-lamp. He was not 
mistaken when he fancied that he saw one half move 
gentlyfinward as if drawn by the hand of a person stand- 
ing behind it. Fagan whistled softly again, and the half- 
door moved back further, dimly showing the face of a 
man through the opening. 

The officer stepped nimbly up the marble entrance, 
and whisked within as though he were the shadow of 
one of the drifting clouds overhead. The door was 
closed, and the ^ey turned in the lock. 

“It f s all right,” whispered the new watchman; “I 
was on the lookout, and no one saw you. ’ ’ 

The man led the way back to the directors’ room, 
where, as in various parts of the bank, a dim light was 
burning. The curtains were down, so that the sharpest 
eyes could detect nothing from the outside. Seating 
themselves by the table, they began talking in low tones, 
the watchman seeming to have the same peculiarity of 
the detective in that respect. Not once did their voices 
reach the pitch that any one, attempting to listen from 
the street, could have caught the faint hum and murmur 
of the speakers. 

For a full half-hour their conversation continued. 
Had President Dillingham known of it, he would have 
thought it singular that, after the detective professed 


BANK BURGLARY. 


35 


ignorance of this watchman, it should turn out that the 
two men were old acquaintances. 

The couple were still talking, when both were startled 
by some one fumbling at the outer lock, as if seeking to 
obtain an entrance. Instead of betraying alarm, , as 
would have been natural, the two men, after the first 
shock, were as cool as before. 

“That’s the president,” remarked Ely. 

“It will hardly do for him to find me here,” observed 
the detective, glancing around for some place of conceal- 
ment. “I guess that will do,” he added, pointing his 
cane at the closet in which he had before taken refuge. 

He stepped inside and drew the door shut after him. 

“He may take a notion to look in there,” remarked 
the watchman, who was shrewd enough to turn the 
key in the small lock and place it in his pocket. 
Then he stepped to the front of the building, where the 
fumbling at the lock was still heard. Whoever the 
visitor was he could not open the door, for the good 
reason that the big key was on the inside. 

“Who’s there?” demanded the watchman, in a gruff 
voice. 

“It is I, Mr. Dillingham,” was the reply. 

“Step back from the door, so I can have a look at you,” 
called Ely; “I must know it’s you before you come in 
here at this time of night.” 

The president did $s requested, and the watchman 
recognized him, as in fact he had done the moment he 
spoke. The key was turned and the door drawn inward. 

“Have you anybody with you?” asked Ely, peering 
out in the gloom. 

“I am alone.” 

The guardian of the building relocked the door, and 


36 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


then faced his superior with a look and manner which 
plainly asked his business in coming to the bank at that 
unseemly hour. 

“I am so disturbed over last night’s robbery,” he ex- 
plained, “that I can’t sleep You will excuse me when I 
say that, despite the high recommendations you brought, 
I did not feel quite easy concerning you. I decided to 
come down and look around.” 

As he spoke he lead the way to the directors’ room, at 
th£ rear, taking the very chair that had been occupied 
a few minutes before by the detective, who was crouch- 
ing in the closet a half-dozen feet away 

“Well, how do you find things?” inquired the watch- 
man, with the assurance of a man who is sure his em- 
ployer has seen naught which he cannot commend. 

“Very satisfactory— very satisfactory,” replied the 
president, leaning back in his chair with a weary air ; 
“that was a good idea in your making me step away so 
that you could see me before allowing me to enter. ’ 

“Yes, a good thing for you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Had you not done as I requested, I would have 
opened the door about a couple of inches and put a 
bullet through you. ” 

“Mercy ! but suppose there were two or three of us?” 

“Each of the five chambers of my revolver has its car- 
tridge : I don’t think I would have missed with them all.” 

The self-confidence with which this was said won the 
admiration of President Dillingham. 

“I guess you’ll do,” was his comment; “if Walker 
Otter had been half as watchful last night, the Eerwyck 
Bank would be a hundred thousand dollars better off 
than it is.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


37 


As Mr. Dillingham uttered the last words he arose 
and busied himself in removing his outer coat. As was 
his custom, he stepped to the closet to hang it on one of 
the pegs within. He was a methodical man, who never 
laid down the garment like most people. He acted as 
though he intended to spend a considerable time at the 
bank. 

“Bless me !” he exclaimed, on finding the door locked, 
“that is too bad ; but I have a key in my pocket.” 

He drew out a bunch, and tried one after another, 
while Detective Fagan on the inside prepared himself 
for the meeting. The watchman waited with a grim 
smile, and concocted the explanation he would give of 
the presence of the officer, when he should be discovered. 

But none of the keys fitted, and Mr. Dillingham re- 
turned them to his pocket. 

“It makes no difference,” he remarked, proceeding to 
don his coat again, with the watchman’s assistance; 
“there’s no need of my staying here. Let me out the 
front door ; I am satisfied with you.” 

Watchman Ely did as requested, bade his employer 
good-night, locked the big front door behind him, and 
then returned and unfastened the small lock of the closet. 

“Confound it!” exclaimed Detective Fagan, as he 
stepped into view, his face flushed; “if I had been in 
there ten minutes longer it would have been a choice 
between kicking the door open or smothering to death. 
The old fellow would have been startled, but I think we 
could have satisfied him everything was right.” 

“There would have been little trouble about that, for 
you could have plead the same errand as he, and that, 
on hearing the noise at the front, you slipped in there 
to note what might be said by any visitors who wished 


38 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


the watchman to bear some proposition to the directors. 
But it would have been awkward to explain how the 
key came to be lost, and why you didn’t come forth on 
finding who the caller was. On the whole, I am glad 
he didn’t discover you.” 

“So am I,” assented the detective. 

Instead of departing, as it would seem the officer 
might have done, now that his business was finished 
with the watchman, he resumed his former seat, and 
the two continued to smoke and talk until past midnight. 
Finally Fagan rose, yawned, flung away his cigar and 
said he would go back to the hotel where he had en- 
gaged quarters the night before. 

The two strolled from the directors’ room, along the 
open space outside of the railings, and paused a few min- 
utes in front of the heavy outer doors. It was pro- 
foundly quiet, and they spoke in lower tones evenf than 
they were accustomed to use. 

“Sh!” suddenly whispered the watchman, raising his 
hand; “there’s some one on the steps again.” 

The noise was faint, but both heard the cautious foot- 
falls of a person picking his way up the three steps that 
led to the entrance of the bank. 

They were all attention, when an almost inaudible 
rustling caught their ears. Still listening closely, the 
watchman suddenly gripped the arm of his companion 
and pointed at the bottom of the door. Something white 
gleamed there, and was coming into plainer view each 
moment. 

It was a letter which some one was stealthily shoving 
under the door from the outside. 

“Quick ! be ready to follow him !” whispered Ely. 

Watchman Ely quickly turned the big key and drew 


BANK BURGLARY. 


39 


back the heavy door of the bank. He was deft at such 
things, but there was necessarily a slight delay, for such 
heavy objects cannot be snapped to and fro, like ordi- 
nary doors. 

Without stopping to notice the letter at his feet, De- 
tective Fagan leaped through the opening, the instant it 
was presented, and was outside in a twinkling. 

He expected to see the fleeing figure, but the hasty 
glance cast around showed no person in sight. He 
stood irresolute, undecided what to do. 

Meanwhile, Watchman Ely had been more observant. 
The Berwyck Bank stood on the corner. The party who 
shoved the letter under the door completed the little act 
before the key started to turn. He must have been mov- 
ing off when the grating sound warned him of his danger. 
Instead of darting up or down or across the street, he 
whisked around the corner, the watchman hearing his 
feet as he made off on a run. 

Fearful that the officer had blundered, Ely thrust his 
head through the partly open door and called : 

“He has gone to the left ! He is round the corner, run- 
ning like the mischief !” 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” muttered the officer, 
bounding in the direction named. 

The faint moonlight and the nearest lamp gave out 
slight illumination, but he caught a glimpse of a 
shadowy figure vanishing in the distance and was 
after it like a deer. The officer had little doubt of his 
ability to run down any ordinary fugitive. 

But lo ! the race had hardly begun when it ended. If 
the pursuer had really seen his man, he was out of sight 
the next instant. Thinking he might have darted into 
a doorway, or behind some object that concealed his 


40 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


body, the officer continued, though at a moderate pace. 
Suddenly he observed a figured coming toward him, 
sauntering along at a gait the reverse of his own. The 
detective instantly dropped to an ordinary pace, his 
purpose being not to alarm the other into a renewal of 
his flight. 

The newcomer proved to be one of the policemen of 
the town, his height, looks and manner proving he was not 
the individual whom the detective was so anxious to meet. 

“Would you be kind enough to tell me whether you 
saw a man running just now?” asked Fagan, cour- 
teously. 

“Y-es, sir, I did,” was the gruff response. 

“Where is he? Where did he go?” 

“The chap that I saw running is the one I’m talking to, 
and I want to know what the meaning of it is. If I 
ain’t mistaken, I have met you before, sir.” 

“Perhaps you did, but I saw a suspicious fellow a 
while ago, and think he was after my watch.” 

“That yarn won’t do,” warned the policeman; “I’ll 
be easy with you this time, but if you don’t go home 
right off I’ll run you in quicker’n lightning.” 

“You’re rather rough on a gentleman,” said the de- 
tective, assuming a meekness which he was far from 
feeling, “but I guess I’ll take your advice.” 

“It’ll be better for you if you do,” growled the guard- 
ian of the peace, slouching on down the street toward 
the bank. 

Detective Fagan saw that he had made a bad break, and 
he dared not return to the watchman until he was sure the 
way was clear. He had awakened the suspicion of the 
policeman, who would carry out his threat if the excuse 
was again offered him. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


41 


But it was easy for such a veteran as Fagan to avoid 
another meeting with the officer. He turned into a by- 
street, going over the route he had traversed several 
times that evening, until, confident that the way had 
opened again, he came back to the vicinity of the bank. 
He was not mistaken in thinking the watchman was on 
the lookout for him. The signal was promptly answered 
once more, by the slight drawing in of the door, and, as 
cleverly as before, he entered the building, where the 
couple again made their way to the room they had 
lately occupied. 

“What a blunder !” exclaimed Fagan as he dropped into 
a chair. “Instead of darting around the corner the instant 
I was outside I stood staring like a dolt, until the fellow 
had time to get beyond reach. ’ ’ 

“Did you see nothing of him?” 

“Only a parting glimpse, and the next minute I barely 
missed running into a policeman: have you any idea 
that he could have been the one who shoved the letter 
under the door?” 

“Policemen have been known to be mixed up in shady 
affairs, but the chap who darted along the side of this 
building was not an officer. 

“Did you see him?” 

“No; it wasn’t necessary. Those men wear heavy 
boots or shoes, and some of them can sprint, but this 
man, whoever he was, had his feet clothed in calfskin 
or slippers. He may have darted into some open door 
that was waiting for him, in case of just such danger as 
threatened.” 

“But what about that letter?” 

The watchman had already broken the seal and read 
the missive. He passed it to the detective, who, turn- 


42 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


ing up the light overhead, traced the following interest- 
ing sentences : 

“Mr. President Dillingham or Who it may Concern: 

“We’ve got the one hundred thousand dollars and you 
can wistle for it. Half a loaf is better than no bread, 
and don’t be a clam. We’ll agree to give you back 
seventy-five thousand dollars and us keep the rest, pro- 
vided that ends the bizness and you call off your dogs 
and act square, and don’t bother us any more. That’s 
letting you off cheep and the only chance you’ll ever have 
of getting any of the spondulicks back agin. If you’ll 
agree to our terms, mark a cross in chalk on the front of 
the bank door. It needn’t be a big one that’ll attract 
notice and don’t put it on till after bank hours. We’ll see 
it and then we’ll fix things so that the bizness can be 
finished without anybody getting hurt. 

“We’ll act square with you and if you want to get your 
seventy-five thousand dollars back inside of three days 
you’ve only to do as we tell you and act square too, but 
you can’t undertake any tricks, without us getting onto 
you like a flee on to a dog. You Know Who.’’ 

“That thing,’’ remarked Detective Fagan, “shows 
that, despite the cleverness of the job, these people are 
unaccustomed to this business.” 

“What reason have you for saying that?” asked the 
watchman. 

“Why do they make the proposition to surrender three- 
fourths of their plunder, after saying they have it all so 
secure that it cannot be taken from them? It shows they 
are afraid of being caught, and are anxious to compro- 
mise the matter.” 

“Possibly in some way they have discovered that Pix- 
ley Fagan has taken charge of the business,” replied the 
watchman with a smile. 

‘If that were the case, they would withdraw the 
offer after my performance this evening. No, it’s a 


BANK BURGLARY. 


43 


clear bluff ; but, Mr. Ely, can you make anything of that 
handwriting?” 

“It is disguised, as a matter of course— hold on !” 

Taking out his penknife, the watchman drew the keen 
blade along the crease made by folding the letter across 
the middle, thus separating it into halves, one of which 
he handed to the detective. 

“That will be enough for you; I’ll see what I can do 
with the other. ’ ’ 

Each carefully folded and put away his portion, the 
detective also appropriating the envelope. 

“The night is getting well along,” said the latter, once 
more rising to his feet; “I’ll go to the hotel. If any- 
thing turns up, you can drop in on me there. Probably 
I will be here to-morrow night.” 

“Wait a minute,” said the watchman, walking to the 
front door with the officer; “it would be rather awk- 
ward for you to run into that policeman again. Let’s 
reconnoiter a little.” 

Each approached a window, and moved the blinds, so 
as to peep out without being observed. They carefully 
studied the outside, so far as it lay in their field of vision. 

“Pix,” whispered Ely, a minute later, “look diagonally 
over to the other corner, and tell me whether there is 
any one in the shadow.” 

The detective did as requested, and a minute later an- 
swered : 

“A man is standing there.” 

“And he is watching the bank; I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised, now, if he is the gentleman who beat you in the 
foot-race a little while ago. ’ ’ 

“If that is the case, I will try it again,” remarked the 
detective, fixing his gaze upon the suspicious point. 


44 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


CHAPTER Y. 

“I MUST DO MY DUTY.” 

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and the figure under 
the awning on the opposite corner did not leave his post 
of observation. 

“We can stand it as long as he,” said Detective Fagan 
to his companion ; “he will become tired before 
morning.” 

“Sh! he is impatient already.” 

A lamp stood near the corner, where now and then 
the shadowy outlines of a man could be discerned stand- 
ing well back toward the building nearest to it. As if 
weary of holding one position so long, the stranger 
changed his pose, thus enabling the watchers to ob- 
serve him in the gloom. 

Suddenly he stepped into plain view and moved at a 
rapid pace around the corner, taking precisely the op- 
posite course from that of the man whom the detective 
attempted to follow. 

“Now, Pix,” whispered the watchman, drawing back 
the door so quickly that it gave out no noise. 

Without a word the officer slipped through, and was 
after the individual that had held the front of the bank 
under surveillance so long. 

Detective Fagan made no mistake this time, for the 
man was following the line of the main street, where 
the light was sufficient to show him plainly. But, 
though the hour was late, the couple were not the only 
ones abroad. Other pedestrians were astir, some going 
away from and some approaching the officer. Had the 


BANK BURGLARY. 


45 


one whom he was shadowing known the fact, he could 
have easily eluded his pursuer by wheeling about and 
taking the reverse course, or darting aside at the first 
crossing ; but evidently he was unaware of the figure 
behind him, and every minute lessened the possibility of 
his escaping him. 

At the second cross street the one in advance turned 
to the left. Fagan immediately broke into a run and 
went along the main avenue at a rapid pace. Several 
parties whom he met turned and looked curiously at 
him, but he could afford to disregard them as long as it 
did not happen that any of the policemen were among 
the number. 

That brief spurt decreased the distance separating the 
detective from his man by at least one-half. When he 
made the turn he was no more than fifty yards behind 
him, and the other was in such plain sight that the 
pursuer was sure of him. 

Fagan had already recognized him as Mr. Frank 
Dixon, whom he had shadowed earlier in the evening. 

“Helloa!” muttered the officer, as the other made a 
second turn, which brought him in sight of the residence 
of President Dillingham ; “this has a queer look. It 
can’t be he intends to make a late call.” 

The detective now deemed it best to slip across the 
street, and he did so without being noticed. The other, 
so far as could be judged, did not look around— proof 
that he had no suspicion of the individual that was keep- 
ing so close to him. 

The officer deemed it prudent to fall back and let the 
young man increase the space between them. Though 
there was little lamplight, the moon gave enough illu- 
mination for all purposes ; and, if the bookkeeper dis- 


4G 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


covered the one behind him, the game would be up, so 
far as the detective was concerned. 

Slower and slower became the pace, until, when nearly 
opposite the Dillingham residence, the one in advance 
almost halted. He now looked around, as if to note 
whether any one was observing him ; but the sagacious 
officer had anticipated this act, and shrank so close to 
the buildings that he was in no danger of being seen. 

“He is watching President Dillingham’s house,” was 
the conclusion of Fagan ; “he expects to see something, 
and he is expected, too.” 

The library of Mr. Dillingham was on the first floor. 
That portion of the house was in darkness, but a light 
was burning in one of the upper rooms. It showed 
through the two front windows on that side, and one 
of the curtains was raised. That some one was on the 
watch in that apartment was proven by the action of 
the young man, though the officer, with all his acumen, 
could not discover what it was that guided the person 
standing near the gate and looking in that direction. 

Dixon drew a match from his pocket and lit a cigar, 
which he puffed vigorously until the end was aglow. 
Then, when certain that the crimson point could be seen, 
he raised it above his head, still facing the house, and 
circled it several times from left to right, the same num- 
ber of times in reverse order, and then repeated the first 
gyration. 

At the moment of completing the last circling the 
light in the upper room of President Dillingham’s house 
was extinguished and all became blank darkness. 

“That’s proof that the signal of the young gentleman 
was seen and understood,” was the conclusion of De- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


47 


tective Fagan, “though the person on the lookout up 
there took good care to keep out of sight.” 

But his interest now centered in the young bookkeeper 
across the street, who, having completed the errand that 
took him thither, turned about and leisurely retraced his 
steps. 

Waiting until secure against observation, the officer fol- 
lowed at a safe distance until the young man reached the 
home which Detective Fagan had held under surveillance 
earlier in the evening at the time he met with his stir- 
ring adventure with the policeman who mistook him for 
a burglar. 

While it was hardly natural for one to return so soon 
to the scene of his escape, the officer made sure that no 
one was on the watch for him before trusting himself 
near the store from whose door he had darted in such 
haste. 

As it was, he held back until he saw the young man 
enter the gate to his home. 

The light was still aglow in the upper room where the 
form of the mother had been seen. A few minutes after 
the son’s entrance it went out, and the whole house was 
in gloom. 

“That disposes of Mr. Dixon for to-night,” was the 
conclusion of the watcher. 

Late as it was, Detective Fagan returned to his hotel 
by way of the bank, scrutinizing the house closely as he 
passed. 

If he meditated making another call upon Watchman 
Ely he changed his mind at sight of the policeman, and 
walked with as brisk a pace as was prudent to his hotel. 

Inasmuch as Mr. Fagan had been up almost all of the 
preceding night, he began to experience the need of 


48 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


sleep. He lingered not, therefore, in securing it while 
the opportunity was his. 

Fagan’s first proceedings in the morning was to visit 
the home of President Dillingham. That gentleman 
was not accustomed to go to the bank, except once or 
twice a week, before ten o’clock. Since the burglary he 
was likely to be astir at an earlier hour than usual, and 
the caller found him ready to start. He greeted his 
visitor pleasantly, and the two stepped into the library 
for a talk. 

“I suppose it’s too early for you to have picked up 
anything?” remarked the host. 

“Yes; I was pretty tired and thought the best prep- 
aration for a good day’s work was a refreshing night’s 
rest, so I took it.” 

‘ ‘That was wise ; I can’t say that I was as fortunate, 
for this matter bears so heavily on my mind that my 
slumber is much broken. After you left me, and when 
it was close upon midnight, I put on my overcoat and 
walked down to the bank.” 

“May I inquire the cause of that?” 

“I was nervous ; what you said about the new watch- 
man made me so distrustful that I decided to visit him 
when he wasn’t expecting me.” 

“I thought,” remarked Fagan with a smile, “that 
after reading Mr. Belden’s letter I congratulated you on 
having so trustworthy a fellow.” 

“So you did, but it was the doubt in your face when I 
first told you what I had done that disturbed me.” 

“Well, how did you find things?” 

“Our new man is a prize ; he made me show myself 
before he would admit me, and then coolly said that if I 
hadn’t done as he requested he would have shot me.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 49 

“That’s the kind of man you want, and President Bel- 
den knew what he was doing when he recommended him 
to you.” 

“Yes, and I shall have no further apprehensions on 
that score.” 

“But,” said the caller, more gravely, “I have dropped 
in to speak to you about your bookkeeper — Mr. Frank 
Dixon, I believe is his name.” 

Fagan observed the flush that overspread the bank 
president’s face, as he asked : 

“And what of him?” 

“You must be aware that he is one of the parties 
about whom — ah — it is my duty to make some inquir- 
ies.” 

“I should sooner suspect my niece upstairs than 
him.” 

This remark impressed the detective oddly in view of 
what he had witnessed the preceding night. 

“You told me yesterday that you never had occasion 
to distrust him.” 

“Never ; he is the only child of a poor widow, as I 
told you, and no mother ever had a more devoted son. 
It would break her heart if any ill befell him.” 

“I sincerely hope nothing of the kind will occur. 
But, in order to do my full duty, I must be thorough. 
Can you furnish me with a specimen of Mr. Dixon’s 
handwriting? ’ 

President Dillingham looked fixedly in the face of his 
caller for some seconds without speaking. The detect- 
ive calmly returned the gaze, each countenance motion- 
less but expressive. 

“Don't ask me any questions, please,” added Fagan in 
his low voice : “but if you can, do as I request.” 


50 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


The host sat silent a minute longer and then, without 
a word, rose and walked to his desk. He fumbled 
among some papers until he found the one for which he 
was searching. Then he walked toward the other with 
the letter in his hand. 

“Last Christmas the directors, on my recommenda- 
tion, decided to make an advance in Mr. Dixon’s salary. 
As an appropriate holiday present I sent him this letter, 
and here is his acknowledgment, written in such good 
taste that I filed it away. I will loan it to you for a 
few days, if you wish.” 

“Many thanks. To make the matter complete,” added 
!Fagan, after hastily glancing over the missive, “yours 
ought to keep it company. I observe they are fastened 
together, and it isn’t best to separate them.” 

“Mr. Dixon, of course, has the notification which I 
sent, and, I* presume, treasures it highly. This is the 
rough draft of the letter I was instructed to write. 
Under the circumstances, I did something more than in- 
dite a formal communication. It seemed to me the case 
called for it. What do you think?” 

“Mr. Dixon’s reply is so grateful and well expressed, 
dwelling on the manner in which you have referred to 
his services, that I have some curiosity to peruse your 
own letter.” 

All men have their weak side. The detective had 
touched that of the banker, who plainly was pleased by 
the delicate flattery of his visitor. Truth to say, Mr. 
Dillingham had spent a good deal of labor on his letter 
and was proud of the result. With some protestations, 
therefore, he passed the two documents to his caller, 
who thanked him and promised to return them in a few 
days. 


BANK BURGLARY. 51 

At the moment when the officer had completed his in- 
terview he heard some person walk across the room 
directly overhead, from which the light had shone the 
evening before when a party within awaited the signal 
of Frank Dixon’s cigar. The footstep was so light that 
the caller knew it was that of a child or young lady. 

“Have you children visiting in the house, Mr. Dil- 
lingham?” he asked. 

“No ; why do you ask?” 

“I just now heard the footfall above in your room, 
and it seemed to be that of a child.” 

“It was my niece ; my apartment is at the rear, 
where I am not so liable to be disturbed by the 
noise.” 

Pixley Fagan had gained the knowledge he sought. 

The two rose to their feet, preparatory to passing out, 
when the same dainty footfall sounded on the stairs. 
Mr. Dillingham stepped into the hall, where he kissed 
his relative and bade her an affectionate good-by. The 
detective respectfully loitered behind, but as he fol- 
lowed his host through the front door he managed to 
obtain a glimpse of the miss, who of course was the lady 
he saw the night before. 

“A woman’s instinct is unerring,” reflected the offi- 
cer, as he walked beside the banker down the winding 
graveled path to the street ; “can it be that she has 
any suspicion of my purpose in coming here at this time 
of day? I have learned that a tender feeling exists be- 
tween her and the bookkeeper of the bank, and that the 
proud uncle is not averse to it. He must hold the 3 r oung 
man in high regard thus to encourage their love. I 
hope it shall not be my fate to bring sorrow upon the 
couple ; but, if so, it will not be the first cruel blow I 


52 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 

have been compelled to strike, and I must do my duty— 
I must do my duty.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

“what’s to be done?” 

Detective Fagan felt that he had secured a number 
of threads floating and drifting within his reach, which, 
if rightly handled, could be woven into something. 

While he had not yet settled upon the one who was 
the g’uilty party, he had picked up several important 
clews. 

A man in his position needs to avoid the fatal mistake 
of jumping to a conclusion without proper evidence. 
One of the pitfalls of the professional detective is to 
set out with a certain theory and then try to force his 
facts as they come to light to fit his belief, instead of 
following the opposite course. 

There should be no theory at all at the beginning of a 
case, unless a very general one. As the discoveries ap- 
pear, they will of themselves suggest the proper line of 
thought. 

On the other hand, it is impossible not to form a sus- 
picion with the first glimmer of truth. 

Suspicion in this case pointed to Frank Dixon, the 
bookkeeper of the Berwyck Bank, and all that had 
been learned so far strengthened that suspicion. 

The reader knows upon what this distrust was founded, 
and the facts need not be referred to at length. 

But the most lamentable part of the belief formed by 
the professional was that Miss Mina Crosslands, the ac- 


BANK BURGLARY. 53 

complished niece of President Dillingham, was impli- 
cated with the wrongdoer, if indeed she was not a par - 
ticeps criminis. 

The words which Fagan had overheard, their manner 
when together, and above all, that singular signaling 
between them when the young man returned from his 
station opposite the bank, where he had been on the 
watch for more than an hour ; all these pointed unerr- 
ingly in the single direction. 

The idiosyncrasies of crime are among the strangest 
phenomena connected with this strange nature of ours. 

The partnership of a beautiful and accomplished young 
lady of the highest character in a bank burglary was 
almost beyond credence. In all his experience the de- 
tective had never known anything of the kind. 

But the sagacious Fagan was ready with a charitable 
explanation, which virtually absolved her from guilt. 

It was he, Dixon, her lover and admirer, that had 
planned and plotted the whole thing. He had taken her 
into his confidence, and, through her affection for him, 
she had yielded. 

The deed being done, regret and repentance followed 
when they promised to’ be too late. 

The officer grimly closed his lips and resolved again 
that he would do his duty, with no regard for the conse- 
quences to any one. 

From the home of President Dillingham he went to 
his hotel. He decided to meet Watchman Ely that they 
might compare notes and consult together. He ex- 
pected to find him waiting at the hotel, but saw nothing 
of him. 

Fagan knew where he boarded, but preferred not to go 
there, through fear of attracting notice to Ely. 


54 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“Mr. Bolus ” inquired at the office for a note or letter, 
but there was no mail for him. Disappointed, he 
ascended to his room on the second floor. 

Sitting down at the window, which opened on the 
street, he immediately made a startling discovery. 

He saw a man walking slowly on the opposite side, 
smoking' a cigar and swinging a natty cane, something 
after the manner of the detective himself. His manner 
was that of a person who has nothing special on hand 
and is only dawdling away the hours. 

While still in plain view this individual met another 
person, of ordinary appearance, also smoking; but in- 
stead of a cane, he kept both hands in his trousers 
pockets. 

They passed as though strangers, neither giving the 
other the slightest recognition. 

And yet, as Detective Fagan well knew, they were in- 
timate associates, or, rather, confederates in crime. 

ThoSe two were desperate criminals, and had been con- 
cerned in some of the most sensational burglaries in the 
country. It was they who, it was morally certain, were 
the parties that robbed a bank in the interior of the State 
of New York, when the faithful cashier was shot and one 
of the clerks crippled for life. 

And yet the cunning miscreants managed the affair so 
skillfully that it was impossible to convict them. 

One was Paff Higgens and the other Hake Hoover, the 
latter an Englishman, and the man that sported the 
cane. Each traveled under half a dozen aliases, but 
those named were the ones by which they were best 
known to the authorities. 

One fair look at their countenances, as revealed in the 
sunlight, left no doubt of their identity. Detective 


BANK BURGLARY. 


55 


Fagan was as certain of them as he was of Kneeland 
Ely’s personality. 

But the question which overwhelmed the officer was 
as to the cause of the presence of these two criminals in 
Berwyck on this day in May. 

Had it been several days earlier, the explanation 
would have been self-evident : they were there to plan 
and carry out the robbery of the bank, but that had 
already been accomplished. 

The whole thing was one of those mysterious phases 
of crime which often baffle the most expert detective. 

Only one conclusion seemed reasonable : that was 
that they were in collusion with the bookkeeper and 
were on hand to complete something in the nature of a 
division of the plunder. 

The entrance of the bank was so simple that they 
needed no help. Having the combination given to them 
by Dixon, it was comparatively easy to do the rest. 

This, we say, was the only explanation which the de- 
tective could formulate, but it was far from satisfac- 
tory. The principal objection was that if Pafif Higgens 
and Hake Hoover ever succeeded in looting a bank they 
would never tarry to divide with any partner. 

The theory presupposed that they had done the actual 
burglarizing, and, that being the case, they would have 
wasted no time iu Berwyck after completing the work. 

But it was a waste of time thus to speculate. Fagan 
felt that Kneeland Ely must be seen without delay. 
Enough has been told to show their joint interests in un- 
earthing the guilty ones — an interest which was to con- 
tinue to the end. 

But Detective Fagan preserved his coolness. He did not 
forget that while the two criminals were so well known 


56 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


to him, he also was known to them and sure of recog- 
nition in the event of meeting them in his ‘propria 
persona. 

With the facilities always at command, he made a 
number of changes in liis appearance. Confident that- 
the men as yet were unaware of his presence in town, 
he retained the business suit he had worn from the first. 

The changes in his looks were comparatively slight. 
Pixley Fagan was a man who relied much upon his 
power of facial expression. He could do wonders in 
that line. Then by assuming another gait, manner and 
style, as it may be called, the contrast was more effect- 
ive than that which could be made by dye, false hair, 
beard and the ordinary contrivances used by the ama- 
teur. 

Besides, if he made the metamorphosis too marked, it 
was liable to cause him trouble with the landlord. 

But Fagan found no difficulty in moving below stairs 
without attracting attention. Sauntering to the desk, 
he glanced over the registry. Neither Higgens nor 
Hoover had subscribed under any name. 

It followed, therefore, that their headquarters were 
somewhere else ; and inasmuch as the Berwyck House 
was the only hotel in the place, they must have found 
private quarters. 

Since, also, the criminals took opposite directions, it 
would seem that it was easy for the detective to keep 
upon the trail of one of them. 

Confident in doing so, he sauntered forward, some- 
what after his manner of the night before, but at the 
end of an hour had not caught sight of either. 

They had vanished as utterly as if the earth had 
opened and swallowed them. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


57 


It was indispensable, for reasons which will duly ap- 
pear, that he should see Kneeland Ely without delay. 
So, despite his reluctance to go to his lodging-place, 
Fagan hurried thither. 

The new watchman made his home with a humble 
couple, an old man and his wife, who had no other 
lodgers. 

Much to the detective’s relief, he found his friend 
within, and ascended the stairs to his room. 

The watchman glanced up with a smile when he noted 
the changes Fagan had made in his looks. He noted, 
further, that something unusual had taken place. 

‘T expected you at the hotel,” was the somewhat dis- 
satisfied remark of the visitor. 

“I was there.” 

“When?” 

“About a half-hour ago.” 

“I left a little longer ago than that.” 

“Then it was not my fault that I did not see you.” 

“But why did you not come earlier?” 

“I did.” 

“When?” 

“An hour or more ago.” 

“That was while I was at the house of Mr. Dilling- 
ham.” 

“It strikes me, Pix, that if you expect to be found at 
home by a caller it is your place to stay there.” 

“I have nothing to say on that point ; let it go. But, 
Kneeland, what do you think?” 

“A good many things, when the necessity arises. 
You seem to be agitated over something.” 

“I have reason to be. Paff Higgens and Hake Hoover 


are in town.” 


‘58 THE GREAT BERW YCK 

“I knew it.” 

“You did! Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I have just explained that I called twice to give you 
the news, but didn’t find you in. So I came home to 
get ready for to-night, when, if I’m not mistaken, there 
will be music in the air.” 

Detective Fagan looked at this man who seemed im- 
penetrable to nervousness. 

“What do you make of it?” 

Instead of replying, Ely smiled and said: 

“I will answer you when you offer me your explana- 
tion.” 

The detective gave the theory already stated, to the 
effect that the two criminals had had a hand in the bur- 
glary of a couple of nights before, and were present to 
complete the business with their confederate, Frank 
Dixon. 

But Kneeland Ely shook his head. 

“That won’t do, Pix ; you’re away off.” 

“Well, then, set me right.” 

“I don’t know that I can. A little reflection, how- 
ever, will convince you that it is impossible for you to 
be correct.” 

“You needn’t go into any argument: I’ll admit it; 
let me hear what you have to offer.” 

Watchman Ely lit his pipe and lolled back in his 
chair. 

“To my mind this business has taken the strangest 
shape of anything in which I was ever concerned.” 

“I formed that opinion before I met you to-day.” 

“I know, or at least suspect, to what you refer, but I 
believe that Higgens and Hoover are in Berwyck for 
the purpose of robbing the bank.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


59 


“Bless me! There must be mighty little left to rob it 
of.” 

“Quite right ; but there’s where the grim joke comes 
in. They have looked over the ground before selecting 
this place for their attention. The sleepy watchman, 
the old-time look — all the conditions were so favorable 
that they naturally fixed upon the Berwyck Bank as one 
of the easiest in the country to be cracked. But that 
was days before this affair of the other night.” 

“Then they have planned to rob a bank that has just 
been robbed?” 

“Precisely.” 

“And. of course, do not suspect they are a day too late 
to the fair?” 

“That’s my belief. The secret has been better kept 
than one would have supposed where it was known to so 
many. There isn’t a policeman in town that suspects it. 
Neither Paff Higgens, Hake Hoover nor Bike Warner 
dream of such a thing.” 

“Bike Warner! what has he to do with the business?” 

“He’s here, too.” 

“Anybody else?” 

■ 

“ That’s the whole crowd ; I’ve seen them all.” 

“And have they seen you?” 

“No ; I was lucky. You know before I left home I 
did all the disguising business necessary, for it might be 
awkward to work up any changes after hiring out as a 
watchman. President Dillingham might mistake me 
for a burglar.” 

“True ; your own mother would hardly know you.” 

“For all that, however, I fought shy of the three gen- 
tlemen, and am sure they have no thought of my being 
here.” 


60 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“There is none of them staying at the hotel.” 

“No ; I am aware of that. They are stopping at a 
house in the town.” 

“Where is it?” 

“I don’t know ; they’re too fly to give themselves 
away at this stage of the game ; I tried to find out, but 
had to give it up. You’re pretty well disguised, Pix ; 
suppose you undertake that job.” 

“I’ll try it, of course, but doubt if I will succeed. 
Then they have no suspicion that you’re playing watch- 
man?” 

“I rather think not ; I should feel insulted if I knew 
they did.” 

“They will try the bank to-night — that is, if any reli- 
ance can be placed upon appearances.” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“Well,” remarked the amazed detective ; “this is a 
go. I have heard of a man trying to touch off a blast, 
forgetting that it had already been fired, but I never 
knew of a gang of burglars attempting to loot a bank 
that has just been looted.” 

“Nor have I ; we seem in a fair way to establish some 
precedents before we are through with this business.” 

“What’s to be done?” 

“Gather them in.” 

“How?” 

“What can be more simple, when we know their 
plans? Those gentry generally make their calls about 
midnight or one o’clock. We’ll be ready for them, Pix.” 

The detective mused for a moment or two. 

“Do you recommend that we undertake it alone?” 

“I have been turning that over in my mind ; if there 
were but two I wouldn’t want any better amusement, 


BANK BURGLARY. 


61 


but we shall find it difficult to handle those three— that 
is, so as to make sure of capturing them all : I don’t 
want any to get away.” 

“But what is your plan, Kneeland?” 

\ 

“We must take the mayor into our confidence ; from 
what I have learned of him I think he is a sensible fel- 
low ; we’ll get him to let us have two of his best men ; 
we’ll place them inside the bank or within easy signal ; 
then at the right minute we’ll close in ; there you 
have it. ” 

“The scheme seems a good one, as it should be, com- 
ing from you; but we ought to have something in the 
nature of a rehearsal. You will take your place as 
usual to play the watchman.” 

“No ; I think I will put the old watchman, Walker 
Otter, on duty again.” 

“And why?” 

“You understand that our three friends have founded 
their campaign on the belief that the sleepy old fellow 
still has charge. If they see me go in and handle the 
reins to-night they will postpone the business until they 
have time to investigate, and when they investigate and 
find that the blast has been fired, will decide not to 
waste any more powder.” 

“Will you explain to Mr. Dillingham?” 

“Not until it is over ; he will ask too many questions, 
and is in so rattled a state already that he will be 
sure to bungle matters, and more than likely give the 
whole thing away. I will go to Otter and let him think 
the president wants him to try his hand again. The 
only trouble about that is that he will be pretty likely 
to keep awake when I prefer to have him sleep. He will 
be so anxious to regain his prestige that he will be su- 


62 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


pernaturally vigilant. I shouldn’t be surprised if he 
showed fight, thereby rendering it necessary for the 
visitors to give him a pretty good whack over the 
head to quiet him.” 

“It will serve him right — that is, if the crack isn’t too 
hard. And those fellows won’t hesitate to strike it.” 

“The power of habit is strong, so I think, after all. 
Otter will spend the night as he has been accustomed 
to spend it for the last dozen years ; anyhow, I’ll take 
the chances.” 

“Since the line to follow is decided upon, let’s fix the 
particulars. Shall I see the mayor?” 

“Yes ; arrange with him and I’ll attend to the watch- 
man.” 

“What of placing the policemen inside the bank?” 

“Easy enough to do that ; the party won’t appear in 
the neighborhood before the night is well along. One of 
them may take a promenade past it about ten o’clock, 
just to assure himself that everything is straight. Be- 
fore that we’ll run the men in.” 

“What will Otter think?” 

“More than likely he’ll be snoring by that time. If he 
isn’t, he’ll be told that suspicious characters are in town 
and we think it best he should have company. He won’t 
object.” 

“Who generally stands watch?” 

“Bike Warner ; that’s his business ; he’s mighty good 
at it, too.” 

The plan outlined by Kneel and Ely was followed, so 
far as possible, in spirit and letter. He and Detective 
Fagan divided the work between them, and each under- 
stood his own and the other’s part. 

Fagan, keeping a sharp lookout for the burglars, vis- 


BANK BURGLARY. 63 

ited Mayor Herkins and explained matters. The official 
proved to be an intelligent gentleman, who proffered all 
the assistance in his power. He called in two of his best 
officers, before whom the matter was laid, and they 
eagerly entered into it. 

They were to saunter by the front of the bank pre- 
cisely at nine o’clock that evening. Watchman Ely 
would stroll past at the same moment on the other side 
of the street, returning, as may be said, from a reconnais- 
sance of the enemy’s lines. If he moved his hat and 
wiped his brow, it would mean that the coast was clear 
and they were to enter the building without hesitation. 

If Ely kept his hat on his hedd, they must saunter 
past without giving any attention to the bank or seem- 
ingly to the watchman. 

This maneuver was to be repeated precisely fifteen 
minutes later, and if necessary, at similar intervals until 
the way should open. 

Watchman Otter, within, would be instructed to keep 
the door unlocked until the policemen entered. 

Once inside the building, they were to dispose them- 
selves as their judgment suggested the best, to make 
sure of capturing the criminals. 

Ely and Fagan would remain outside until they heard 
a prearranged signal from the policemen within. 

It was the wish of the couple to secure Bike Warner, 
one of the worst miscreants in or out of the penitentiary. 
He would be in the vicinity, and the instant he suspected 
what was going on would take good care to save him- 
self. 

His location gave him much the best opportunity of 
escaping at the first approach of danger. 

The preliminaries being agreed upon, Ely and Fagan 


64 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


set out to put them in execution, neither dreaming- of 
the astounding- complication that was to ensue in the 
course of that eventful night. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“they have arrived.” 

Mayor Herrins of Berwyck not only knew when to 
hold his peace but made no mistake when he selected 
Policemen Smith and Brown to assist in capturing the 
criminals that had plotted to rob the bank of the town. 

The officers were big, strong, courageous, cool, and, 
best of all, possessed good judgment. 

Precisely at nine o’clock they sauntered along the 
street in front of the institution that had been selected 
for the unlawful attempt of the criminals. 

Their acquaintances whom they met nodded in friendly 
recognition, but observed nothing in the manner of the 
couple to suggest that anything unusual was on their 
minds. 

When in front of the brick building, Smith, who was 
on the outside, said in a low tone, referring to Watchman 
Ely: 

“Yonder is our man.” 

“I will not turn my head; is he looking this way?” 

“He doesn’t seem to be; but we can’t tell at this dis- 
tance.” 

“It’s time he raised his hat, if he’s going to.” 

“He isn’t going to; something’s wrong.” 

Smith was right : the new watchman strolled past, as 
though in a brown study, and, turning the first corner, 
disappeared. 


BANK “BURGLARY. 6*5 

It was evident he had discovered something suspicious. 
What it was no one else could say, but it must have been 
unmistakable, else he would have made the signal agreed 
upon. 

Neither of the officers knew the suspected parties, 
though both had fixed upon a couple of strangers in 
town as members of the company. 

Without any change of place or manner, Smith and 
Brown strolled down the street and out toward the 
outskirts of the town. 

“Here comes one of them,” remarked Brown in an 
undertone. 

He referred to a large, well-dressed man, approaching 
on the same side of the street at a leisurely pace. 

“It’s pretty near my time to lay off,” said Smith; “I 
think I’ll go home and turn in for the night: what do 
you mean to do?” 

“I must stay at the office awhile; the mayor will give 
me a raking down if I’m late again.” 

“He seems to be getting particular since he discharged 
Jenkins last week ; I suspect he’s in training for election. ’ ’ 

Both laughed as though the matter was a joke. The 
brief conversation would sound pointless to the reader 
but for the explanation that it w as intended for the bene- 
fit of the man whom they saw drawing nigh, and whom 
both believed to be one of the criminals. 

The words were so timed that the stranger must have 
heard them all, and doubtless gained the impression they 
meant him to gain. 

As soon as they were beyond earshot, Brown asked : 

“What do you make of him?” 

“He’s Bike Warner.” 

“How can you know that?” 


66 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“That new watchman said he’s cross-eyed : didn’t you 
notice it?’’ 

“I did.’’ 

“That settles it.” 

“You’re right; that person is Bike Warner and no 
mistake. Pretty bright fellow that new watchman ; 
Smith. ’ ’ 

“Yes ; he must be getting good wages to take the place 
of old Otter.” 

“Wonder if he’ll stay long?” Brown added. 

“Perhaps a week or so — that is, until this job is 
finished. ’ ’ 

They laughed again. Evidently they had their own 
theory as to the personality of Kneeland Ely. 

The stroll of the officers led them along the avenue in 
front of the residence of President Dillingham. The 
lower part was lighted up, and at the moment of passing 
Frank Dixon entered the gate and walked briskly up the 
graveled walk to the porch. 

“He’s rather late with his call,” remarked Smith. 

“He will even things by staying longer,” observed his 
companion, and no other reference was made to the 
matter. The words showed the view of the young 
couple that generally prevailed in Berwyck. 

Time was passing and the officers headed toward the 
bank. Before coming in sight of it they encountered 
Bike Warner again, though he was on the opposite side 
of the street. They gave him no apparent attention, nor 
did he manifest any interest in them. 

“He’s passed the bank to see if everything is right,” 
was the conclusion of Smith, with which his companion 
agreed. 

“Helloa,” whispered Brown; “what does that mean?” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


67 


Watchman Ely was observed several rods in advance, 
walking in the same direction with themselves. Where 
he came from neither could say. Though he did not look 
around nor seem to be aware of the proximity of the 
policemen, the latter knew there was no mistake in the 
matter. He was certain they were behind him and his 
presence was no accident : it had its significance. 

“He’s been piping Bike,” observed Smith. 

“Risky business, for Bike’s likely to pipe him.” 

“The new watchman knows a thing or two.” 

If Kneeland Ely wished to be joined by the policemen, 
he would slacken his pace. If he desired to draw away 
from them he would increase his gait. He did neither : 
therefore he preferred that things should remain as they 
were. 

In the same aimless manner, Ely strolled forward, 
turning several times before he reached the street lead- 
ing past the bank. 

Smith glanced at his watch. 

“Twelve minutes past nine,” he said; “he’ll reach the 
corner on the minute.” 

“We’ll get the signal this time.” 

“Sure, for Bike is out of the way, unless,” added the 
officer, “Bike takes it into his head to do a little more 
promenading. ’ ’ 

Brown glanced over his shoulder. Nothing was to be 
seen of the burly criminal, with whom they expected 
soon to have a struggle. 

Smith was right. Kneeland Ely moved past the bank on 
the opposite corner at precisely fifteen minutes after nine. 
While the eyes of both officers were on him, he raised his 
hat and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. 

It was the prearranged signal. 


68 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


Without glancing in any direction to make sure every- 
thing was right, Policeman Brown, in the most natural 
manner, turned slightly to the right, and, neither hurry- 
ing nor lagging, ascended the three marble steps of the 
bank. 

His companion did the same, and was at his elbow 
when the former grasped the brass knob of the outer door. 

The next instant an impatient exclamation escaped 
him. 

The door was locked ! 

From some cause the watchman had secured the fast- 
ening against any unexpected intrusion. 

Thus the first step in the stirring drama was a slip. 

Nothing of the kind had been counted on, for Otter's 
instructions were that the door was to remain unlocked 
from half-past eight until ten o’clock. He had under- 
stood it and his blunder was unintelligible. 

The situation was trying. To remain rattling the 
door was sure to attract the attention of passers-by and 
disarrange the programme, while to go away promised 
no improvement, since the same difficulty would remain 
to confront them. 

“What’s to be done?” asked the perplexed Smith, his 
hand still on the knob. 

“I’m blessed if I know, unless — ” 

“Kick at the door till you wake him! he’s in there 
asleep !” 

The words were uttered by some one moving along the 
pavement directly below them. The person did not look 
to the right or left, but the glance of the officers revealed 
him as Kneeland Ely. 

Smith followed instructions. He rattled the door 
harder than ever, and, raising his heavy boot, delivered 


69 


BANK BURGLARY. 

a kick that threatened to carry the structure off its 
hinges. 

Immediate results followed. The kev turned in the 
lock, the door was drawn inward and the scared face of 
Walker Otter peered out upon them. 

“Bless me! what’s the matter, officers?” he asked in 
a shaking voice. 

The policemen stepped quickly within and locked the 
door behind them. 

“You dolt!” said Brown, laying his hand threaten- 
ingly on his club ; “what do you mean by having that 
door locked?” 

“Why, gentlemen, them’s my instructions,” was the 
wondering reply, as the old man stood before them, 
plainly revealed in the dim light of the several gas-jets 
that were kept burning all night. 

“Weren’t you told to leave it unlocked until we came?” 

The watchman scratched his head meditatively. 

“Bless me, I was told that, but really it slipped my 
mind ; I hope you will excuse me, gentlemen. ” 

“Why didn’t you open the door before ? We’ve been 
here a long time hammering and trying to get A.” 

“I lieerd you, gentlemen; but you see my rlieumatiz 
makes me move so slow that — ” 

“That’ll do; you were asleep as usual.” 

“Upon my word, gentlemen — ” 

“Shut up, I tell you ; go back to the settee and sleep if 
you want to, but don’t bother us any more.” 

The watchman apparently believed it best to obey the 
instructions of the officers of the law, when given in such 
bluff terms. He walked to where he had been reclining 
on the settee and sat down with folded arms and with his 
gaze following the figures of the two policemen. 


70 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


He wondered wliat they intended to do. They had not 
offered any explanation, nor did he dare ask for any, but 
he determined to find out. 

He sat for several minutes bolt upright. That posture, 
however, soon became tiresome, and he assumed an easier 
one. By and by he shifted again, and then — the natural 
consequence followed — he sank into a deep slumber. 

Meanwhile, Policemen Smith and Brown lost no time. 
Although the visitors were not expected for several 
hours, the couple arranged matters as though they were 
liable to drop in at any moment, which indeed may be 
said to have been the fact. 

The safe or vault was at the rear of the large business 
room of the bank, being let into the solid wall, so that 
when the door was closed a comparatively even surface 
was presented. It was secured by the new combination, 
known only to the president and cashier. 

The only other room used by the institution was 
reached, as has already been explained, by passing along 
the side of the business portion still further to the rear. 
All the curtains were down, so that no one could look in 
at night irom the street. 

Smith and Brown spent several minutes in learning 
their bearings, as may be said. They had never been in 
the directors’ room, . but were familiar with the more 
public portion. They passed to the smaller apartment. 

“Here is the place to wait,” remarked Smith, drawing 
up the chair of the president, sitting down and elevating 
his feet on the desk in true American fashion. 

His companion assumed an easy posture near him. 
Then they had nothing to do but to await the eventful 
moment for the visitors to come. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


71 


That' they would present themselves before the passing 
of the night neither felt the least doubt. 

Their only companion, as may be said, was the large 
clock fastened against the wall. The ticking sounded un- 
naturally loud in the solemn stillness and the hands 
moved with the trying slowness they always show at 
such times. But for the monotonous ticking, they would 
have believed the piece had suspended business altogether. 

The sounds of feet on the pavement outside were audi- 
ble as the pedestrians passed the corner, the numbers 
gradually growing fewer as the night progressed. 

Smith, half in earnest, insisted now and then that he 
recognized certain persons by the peculiarity in the noise 
made by their feet. 

“That’s the boss” he suddenly whispered; “I can’t 
make any mistake about him /.’ ’ 

The doubting Brown softly rose and peered around the 
edge of the curtain. 

“You’re right,’’ he said, coming back to his seat ; “he’s 
interested in this affair. ’ ’ 

“I hope he won’t try to come inside to see whether we 
are awake. It might spoil everything.’’ 

“Worse than that, it would disturb Otter.” 

The regular breathing of the watchman was plainly 
heard by the couple in the back room. 

“I’m glad he’s asleep ; for he would kick up a rumpus 
if he happened to be awake when they came.” 

Suddenly the town clock began sounding the hour of 
eleven. Brown looked up at the face of the timepiece 
and saw that it agreed to the minute with the other. 

“I was hopeful both were late. This is tiresome. Why 
can’t those fellows keep better hours?” 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


Tlie officer rose, yawned, stretched his massive limbs 
and then sat down again. 

“They’ll make up for lost time when they do arrive,” 
was the comment of his comrade. 

“Now I don’t look upon it as impossible that they may 
make their visit a little earlier than the new watchman 
anticipates. ’ ' 

“This is a sleepy town, and eleven o’clock here counts 
the same as a couple of hours later in New York or Phil- 
adelphia. ’ ’ 

“They will need a considerable time to finish their 
work. Not knowing the combination, they must use 
powder or dynamite.” 

“But with the old-fashioned safe they will bore through 
the outer door as though it were made of wood. Ely 
says they are old hands at the business and won’t make 
any mistake. ’ ’ 

“Except in not counting on our being here.” 

Both started from their chairs and stared questionably 
at each other. At that moment a heavy fall was heard 
in the outer room. 

“Sh /” whispered Smith, rising softly and gently draw- 
ing back the door. He went out on tiptoe, while Brown 
stationed himself by the inner door, held partly open, so 
as to be ready to go to his companion’s help the instant 
it was needed. 

Smith called in an undertone : 

“Come here, Brown !” 

The other quickly joined his friend, who was shaking 
with laughter. 

Walker Otter’s sleep could not have been dreamless, 
for he had rolled from the settee to the floor, where he 
mutteringly adjusted himself and resumed his slumber. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


73 


“We may as well let him lie where he is,” said Smith, 
“though I meant at first to lift him back again.” 

“You might stand him on his head and he would con- 
tinue to sleep. Leave him alone — St!” 

Some one had paused on the outside, as if about to 
enter the building. The policemen quietly hastened back 
to their former position, on the alert for their visitors. 

But it was a false alarm. The halt by the one outside 
meant nothing. He resumed his walk and passed on. 

It was now half-past eleven, and the crisis could not be 
far off. Smith believed the criminals would not wait 
many minutes longer, for the streets were as deserted as 
they were likely to be for a full hour or more. 

Brown was inclined to think the mayor was nosing 
around and had made a move to learn whether the offi- 
cers were prepared ; but Smith thought differently. Such 
a course on his part would not be in keeping with his 
usual good sense. 

But the long minute hand of the clock slowly climbed 
the face until it reached the last quarter, where it seemed 
to stop. Then it struggled free and worked slowly up- 
ward. 

Still the visitors came not. 

Some one walked rapidly past the window and all 
again became silent on the outside. The voice of a per- 
son calling to another, probably across the street, was 
heard, followed by the reply of the second one. 

The watchers might well have imagined they were in 
some deserted residence, miles off in the country, beyond 
the reach of any friendly or unfriendly call. 

The ticking on the wall grew louder than before. The 
officers had ceased conversing and were listening. 

All at once the town clock began booming the hour of 


74 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


midnight, each stroke ringing out loud and clear on the 
still air. 

At the same moment a slight noise was heard in the 
outer room. Between the strokes it was so distinct that 
the watchers recognized its meaning. 

Some one was working at the lock of the door. 

The noise continued after the booming of the clock 
ceased. It was so well defined that no mistake could be 
made as to its meaning. 

“It’s the burglars,” whispered Brown: “they have ar- 
rived.” 

He spoke the truth. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“TWO SHADOWY FIGURES PASSED UP THE STEPS.” 

Strange as it may seem, Detective Fagan and Watch- 
man Ely were more afraid of several other persons than 
of the men who they were certain had planned to 
burglarize the Berwyck Bank that evening. 

Not afraid in the usual sense of the term, but the two 
dreaded that their own friends, through overzeal, would 
disarrange the plans formed with so much care. 

The one who caused the most misgiving was President 
Dillingham. He had visited the bank the previous even- 
ing at an unseasonable hour, and was liable to repeat 
the act. 

If he did so before the appearance of the criminals, they 
would keep out of the way and probably give up the job. 
If he called while they were at their work, he ran risk 
of being killed. 

How to prevent his repeating his visit was a delicate 
and difficult question. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


75 


“You must look out for him during the first half of 
the night, so that if he appears you can turn him 
back.” 

“On what pretext?” asked Fagan. 

“He expressed himself satisfied last night with his in- 
spection. You can manage to meet him while he is yet 
a safe distance away, and say that if his new watchman 
finds himself under suspicion of incompetence after hav- 
ing received assurance to the contrary, he will be offend- 
ed and leave his employ.” 

“Perhaps he will not care if he does.” 

“He will not want me to go in the nighttime, as you 
can assure him I will do if interfere^ with by him 
again.” 

“Suppose he takes a walk abroad and happens to meet 
you?” 

“I will take care that he doesn’t do that, if you will 
onlj T keep him away from the bank.” 

“What will he think when he learns that Otter is 
back at his old place?” 

“He can’t learn it before to-morrow, and then it will 

' 

• be easy to explain matters to him.” 

The other individuals who caused ratisgiving to our 
friends were Mayor Herkins and his policemen. 

Respecting the latter, the question was as to their fit- 
ness to face the burglars ; but, inasmuch as that question 
must arise regarding any parties taking their places, it 
caused less concern than the fear about President Dil- 
lingham. 

The mayor was certain to remain on the alert through 
the night. He had informed the couple of his intention 
in that respect. 

Indeed, he would have been a strauge official if he had 


76 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


gone home to sleep, knowing the town was to be racked 
by such an unprecedented earthquake within a few 
hours. ^ 

We have shown that he strolled past the bank while 
his officers inside were on guard. When he had done 
this for the third time Watchman Ely met him at a safe 
distance and begged him to refrain, since, if he did not, 
the whole scheme would be overthrown. 

Mayor Herkins was sensible enough to accept the 
protest, and did as requested. 

It now began to look as if matters would be carried 
out according to programme. 

President Dillingham, as Ely believed, was under the 
eye of Detective Fagan, who would keep him at a dis- 
tance. 

Since, while the night was still young, the new watch- 
man had considerable leisure on his hands, he concluded 
to visit the vicinity of Mr. Dillingham’s house. The pre- 
cise point where Pixley Fagan had agreed to keep his 
beat until half-past eleven o’clock had been settled, so 
that Ely knew where to look for him. 

The locality was so retired that the friends could meet 
and exchange words without attracting notice. Ely had 
an important secret to tell, for after parting company 
with the detective he had made a discovery which Fa- 
gan ought to know at the earliest moment. 

This was nothing less than the presence of a fourth 
member of the lawbreakers, in the person of Volney 
Biggs, who Ely supposed was doing time in a Western 
penitentiary, to which he had been sentenced several 
years before. 

But here he was in Berwyck, and had therefore served 
out his imprisonment, been pardoned or broken jail. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


r^ry 

i i 

The first unpleasant surprise came to Ely when lie 
reached the lonely block where the detective ought to 
have been idling his time and failed to see him. The 
watchman went over the entire beat, meeting only three 
strangers. 

“That is strange,” he thought, with a thrill of misgiv- 
ing. 

It struck him as probable that his friend, in order to 
make sure that the bank president did not escape him, 
had called at his home. 

It never would have done for Ely to show himself at 
Mr. Dillingham’s house at an hour when duty required 
him to be at the bank. There was nothing, however, to 
prevent a reconnaissance by him. 

Accordingly, he -strolled past the handsome residence, 
scrutinizing it from the opposite side of the street. 

It was wrapped in darkness ; not a glimmer came from 
any portion. The owner was asleep and Detective Fagan 
was somewhere else. 

Trying not to believe anything was amiss until he 
received proof of it, Ely now went back over the ground 
where his friend ought to have been. 

Not the first glimpse of him was seen. 

“It may be he has made the same discovery as I and is 
looking for me,” was the next thought of the watch- 
man. “He knows where to find me.” 

All in vain. Detective Fagan was gone for the time, 
and the new watchman was at a loss to understand it. 

Ely’s beat was a block away from the bank corner. 
No position could be more favorable, for by the aid of 
moonlight and the street-lamps, he not only had the 
front of the bank under his eye but could detect the 


78 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


approach of any one, no matter from what direction he 
came. 

A convenient awning and store gave him all the 
shelter he needed, and the distance was so short that 
he could reach the bank within a few seconds after being 
summoned. 

His first purpose was to locate Mr. Bike Warner, who 
he was confident was to stand guard outside. 

If he should happen to take the same vantage ground 
with Ely an awkward complication was likely to follow ; 
but he would not be likely to do that, for it would have 
been contrary to custom. 

He needed to be much nearer the bank, to give warn- 
ing of the approach of danger and afford his confed- 
erates time to escape, or at least to ©ease their opera- 
tions until the peril of discovery passed. 

The town clock had just finished striking eleven when 
a figure came in sight which the watchman recognized 
as Bike Warner. He passed so near the doorway where 
Ely stood in the shadow that discovery seemed certain. 
Had it taken place it must have exerted a marked influ- 
ence over what followed. 

And had tfie criminal done his whole duty, he assured- 
ly must have observed that shadowy form which once 
was within a few feet of him ; but as he moved by, at a 
deliberate walk, his gaze remained fixed on the corner 
where stood the building to be plundered. 

If any danger threatened, he expected it much 
nearer to the bank than was the watchman. 

So he went on, and that peril was T over. 

Strolling beyond the corner, he turned when too far to 
be observed by Ely, and, returning, disappeared in an- 
other direction. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


79 


“He has found everything favorable,” was the conclu- 
sion of the watchman, who was so well convinced that 
the burglary would not be attempted before midnight 
that he did not hesitate to leave his post. 

Despite his certainty that a stirring encounter was im- 
minent, Kneeland Ely was more disturbed at that mo- 
ment because of the unaccountable absence of Detective 
Fagan than he was by the presence of the desperate men 
in the town. 

Somehow he could not help associating the disappear- 
ance of his friend with the discovery of Yolney Biggs, 
the fourth member of the company. 

The detective’s first supposition was that Higgens and 
Hoover were the only criminals in town, but he had 
learned differently from Ely. He was therefore on his 
guard against all three. 

Knowing nothing, however, of the fourth member, the 
officer was at a frightful disadvantage. His well-known 
skill and experience enabled him to maneuver against 
two, three, four or more, but a prime necessity in such a 
case was that he should know just how many he was 
called upon to combat. 

Moving out, therefore, from his hiding-place, Watch- 
man Ely walked fast to the corner where Fagan had 
agreed to keep watch for President Dillingham. He was 
to remain there until half-past eleven, before it would be 
considered safe to leave the president to himself. 

It would be hard to picture the increased misgiving of 
the watchman when he learned that his friend was still 
absent. Unquestionably he had not been at his post that 
evening. 

“The pitcher can go to the well once too often,” was 
Ely’s melancholy conclusion : “but I hope it won’t prove 


80 THE GREAT BERWYCK 

so in this case. One more man or less doesn’t make much 
difference in the world, but Pix is too good a fellow to 
be spared. Where the mischief car he and Volney Biggs 
be?” 

Upon his return to his own station, Ely went over the 
same ground as before, so that he passed the house of 
President Dillingham. 

It was still shrouded in darkness, as it had been for 
nearly two hours. 

The watchman had not been given as favorable an op- 
portunity to become acquainted with the little town of 
Berwyck as had the detective. When, therefore, he ob- 
served a light was shining from the upper room of] a 
small building standing a little back from the street he 
had no suspicion to whom it belonged. 

The fact was noticeable because it was the only house 
in the immediate neighborhood which showed that any 
one was astir within. 

To one of Ely’s observant nature the trifling fact had 
a meaning at this time which he would have liked to de- 
termine. 

“Some one may be ill,” he reflected, “but I believe 
that gas turned up to the highest point has something to 
do with the Berwyck Bank burglary or with— the absence 
of Pixley Fagan.” 

Time was precious, but he could not forbear lingering 
and watching for a few minutes. 

The little street was so retired that the glare of the 
lamp and the light of the moon failed to show any per- 
son stirring. The only individual visible was the watch- 
man himself on the opposite side of the street. 

But the conditions changed the next minute. Some one 
came around the corner from the direction of President 


BANK BURGLARY. 


81 


Dillingham's home, walking fast. The watchman re- 
sumed his progress, but so slowly that he was sure of be- 
ing overtaken before going more than a few rods beyond 
the cottage from which the light was burning. 

His hearing enabled him to locate the other person 
without looking around. The better to conceal his iden- 
tity, Ely assumed a limp and raised one shoulder, taking 
care to do this before the other had a chance to note the 
change. 

Suddenly the sound of the footfalls on the pavement 
stopped. A backward glance instantly explained the 
cause. The man had left the flagging and was crossing 
the street diagonally. The soft earth failed to give back 
any sound. 

He was the occupant of the house where the light was 
burning and was making haste to reach his home. 

The moonlight and the glow of a lamp beneath which 
he passed revealed the young man to Watchman Ely. 
He was Frank Dixon, the bookkeeper of the Berwyck 
Bank. 

“He doesn’t keep good hours,” was the natural thought 
of Ely; “but though it looks as if he was in the affair 
the other night, I don’t believe he’s in this.” 

Dixon hurriedly entered the house, ascended the stairs 
and then, as his mother had done the preceding night, 
raised the curtain and looked out. 

He, too, seemed to be expecting the appearance of 
some one who came not ; but, in his case, he was looking 
for one whom he did not wish to see, while she yearned 
for him. 

The light fell upon him so fully that his face, shoulders 
and the upper part of his body were clearly revealed. 
The watchman had made himself acquainted with the 


82 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


appearance of all the employees of the bank, so that the 
first glance identified, the bookkeeper. 

“I don’t wonder the niece of Dillingham is infatuated 
with him ; he’s handsome enough to turn the head of 
any girl.” 

Dixon held his position but a few minutes, little dream- 
ing that any one was observing him from the street be- 
low. Then down went the curtain, and in a brief while 
the light was turned out. 

Watchman Ely glanced at his watch. 

“Ten minutes to twelve!” he exclaimed; “I have no 
business here, but if I knew of any way to help poor Pix 
I would let the bank go, if the gang carried off the build- 
ing itself.” 

There was no risk in walking fast, and the man made 
good time until he reached the position he had vacated 
nearly a half-hour before. 

The most careful scrutiny of his surroundings failed to 
show anything out of the usual run of things. 

But the change quickly came. The people on the 
streets were so few that it was easy to distinguish each 
as he came in sight. The figure of a large man strolled 
past the bank, just as it had done earlier in the evening. 

Bike Warner was taking his last survey, preparatory 
to signaling to his companions that the coast was clear. 

To the r. tonishment of the watchman, the man, in- 
stead of turning to one side, as he had done before, came 
directly toward him. 

“Confound it!” muttered Ely; “this means detection, 
sure. ’ ’ 

He would have slipped away had the chance been given, 
but to emerge from his shelter and hurry off would be 
the worst sort of a break. The suspicious criminal would 


BANK BURGLARY. 


n 

O 


know like a flash what it meant. All that Ely could do 
was to stay where he was and meet the crisis as he had 
met many others. 

The action of Bike Warner puzzled Ely, for it was con- 
trary to the rules of procedure under such circumstances. 

The other watchman’s place was near the bank where 
he could give timely notice' to his confederates. While, 
as has already been shown, Ely’s situation afforded this 
view, yet there was one direction from which he could 
not see a party approaching until he arrived within a few 
paces of the steps. 

The professional detective and burglar take no chances 
that can be avoided by shrewdness and vigilance. 

But, at the culmination of Ely’s chagrin and exaspera- 
tion, the wished-for change took place. 

Bike Warner was still several rods away when, like 
Frank Dixon, he turned and crossed the street diagonally. 

This was a vast relief, as may be supposed, to the 
watchman, who shoved back the revolver which he had 
half drawn from his hip pocket. 

Why this crossing of the street was made it would be 
difficult to explain, except upon the theory that the crim- 
inal detected something on the other side which he con- 
cluded to investigate. 

The fact that he moved over a small space several 
times, where his actions were only dimly visible to the 
man shrinking in the shadows, favored this explanation. 
He probably observed a likeness among the shadows 
which suggested a person, and Warner speedily discov- 
ered his error. 

His next movement was more startling than any yet 
made. 

Without the least warning, he came across the street 


84 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


again, heading for the spot where Watchman Ely was 
striving to keep out of sight. 

Again the revolver was partly drawn from the pocket, 
and held so that the owner was sure of securing “the 
drop” on his antagonist, if the crisis should be precipi- 
tated by events. 

But Bike Warner had not yet discerned Watchman 
Ely, and it was strange he had not done so. But the 
miscreant was not expecting his presence in town, and 
therefore was not looking for him. 

Upon reaching the outer edge of the pavement War- 
ner wheeled about and stood with his back to the watch- 
man. Then he emitted a low, guarded whistle. 

At that moment the clock in the town hall began sound- 
ing the hour of midnight. The watchful Ely saw two 
shadowy figures pass up the steps at the front of the bank 
and apply the key which they had ready. The door 
quickly opened, and they passed inside. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“STOP, OR i’ll fire!” 

It would not do for Bike Warner to retain his present 
position. As explained, he was too far from the bank to 
give prompt notice of the approach of danger. Accord- 
ingly, waiting only a moment after the door had closed 
behind his confederates, he sauntered to the corner and 
took position within a couple of rods of the building. 

There, instead of assuming a fixed posture, he walked 
slowly past for a dozen paces, and then returned, begin- 
ning a regular tramp, which would give him the scope 
of vision he needed. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


85 


Watchman Ely was alert. Instead of following him 
immediately, he remained in the shadow of the doorway 
for full five minutes. 

He wished to wait until matters were moving within 
the bank itself. 

Then he stepped out from his concealment and imi- 
tated the action of the other watcher. 

At that late hour not another person was in sight. Be- 
fore, however, Ely reached the corner, a pedestrian came 
at a brisk walk from the opposite direction, his course 
taking him in front of the steps and past the sentinel. 

The latter coughed in the most natural manner in me 
world, while the stranger, with no thought of what was 
going on so near him, hurried by and vanished from sight. 

Ely had not checked his own moderate pace, and was 
now within a short distance of where Bike Warner was 
slowly walking back and forth. 

The criminal had his eye on him, and seeing that he 
would pass near him, he again coughed. There could be 
no mistake as to the meaning of the simple signal. 

An advantage presented itself to Ely, who was moving 
in the same direction as the other and only a few steps 
behind him. 

It was evident to the new watchman that Bike Warner 
held no more suspicion regarding him than he had of the 
stranger who had just passed out of sight. Yielding to 
a singular impulse, Ely paused in front of the steps, as 
though he had caught some suspicious sound. 

Bike instantly stopped in his beat, looked around and 
came back to where Ely stood. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he gruffly asked. 

“I wonder if there’s anything wrong in there,” was 
the innocent reply of Ely. 


86 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“See here, young man, you had better move on. I’ve 
been hired to watch that bank, and I’ll run you in if you 
hang about here. If you want to save your hide, hurry 
home and go to bed.” 

“I don’t see what’s wrong in my stopping here.” 

“You don’t, eh? Well, I’ll show you !” 

Bike Warner advanced angrily, with hand outstretched 
to seize the throat of the innocent-looking person. 

Ely retreated a single step. Then his right fist snct 
out like lightning, landing with crashing force upon the 
jaw of the astounded criminal, who staggered backward 
and would have fallen to the ground had he not collided 
with the lamp-post behind him. 

Ely’s blood was up, and he dashed forward, intending 
to fell his man to the earth and then slip the nippers 
upon him, but he was checkmated by the unexpected 
course of the ruffian. 

Without uttering the signal to his friends- within the 
bank to apprise them of what was going on, and without 
the first attempt to resent the assault, he turned and sped 
up the street like a deer. 

For the moment Kneeland Ely was disconcerted, for 
he had not dreamed of any such display of cowardice. 
The next instant, however, he was after the big fellow 
with the fleetness of a greyhound. 

Ely was as good a sprinter as Detective Fagan, and it 
need not be said that he did not let the grass grow under 
his feet. The fugitive kept in the middle of the street, 
where the way was open and there was no danger of 
running into any obstruction. 

This suited the pursuer, who “let himself out ” as if 
his own life was the stake. He steadily gained, and, if 


BANK BURGLARY 


87 


no unexpected obstacle interposed, was sure to overtake 
his man in a very brief while. 

Bike Warner had proven himself a poltroon, but a pol- 
troon will fight viciously when driven into a corner. 
Kneeland Ely kept his right hand upon the butt of his 
weapon at his hip, ready to draw and use it the instant 
the necessity arose. 

At the first corner the fugitive darted to the right with 
undiminished speed. Had he caught sight of any shelter 
he would have whisked into it ; but hardly a second was 
at his command in which to search, and he kept on. Thus, 
when Ely shot around the same corner, he saw his man 
running in front of him, with the interval between them 
sensibly diminished and fast diminishing. 

It was at this juncture that the pursuer became aware 
that he was not the only one chasing the burglar. Some 
person was running after him, and was close behind. 
Ely concluded a stranger had joined in the pursuit on 
general principles and with no knowledge of what it all 
meant. 

But the watchman had no time to give the matter any 
thought. His hands were full with the fellow u in front. 

Berwyck, it will be remembered, was a small town, 
and the race had not lasted long when all parties were 
dashing through the outskirts. 

At the next corner Ely had approached so close to his 
man that the latter would not have dared to drop out of 
sight had an opening appeared before him. He had not 
a spare second at his disposal. 

“Stop, or I’ll fire ! I know you, Bike Warner 1” 

The answer was startling. The panting fugitive 
wheeled like a flash and let fly with two chambers of his 


8S 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


revolver straight at his pursuer, who was almost upon 
him. 

Ely instinctively ducked his head and the shots sped 
harmlessly past, though it is not to be supposed that his 
action caused his escape. The fugitive was too flurried 
and in too great haste to secure a good aim. 

The angered Ely fired one charge at the fellow, who 
had turned at bay, but with no more effect than the other 
shots. The next instant the two came together like a 
couple of tigers. 

The fierce struggle lasted but a few seconds, when a 
blow felled Bike 'Warner to the ground and Ely sprang 
upon him. There the contest continued with the same 
ferocity. Both were powerful men, and each realized 
what was at stake. 

With the exception of the command shouted a few 
minutes before by Watchman Ely not a word was spoken 
by the antagonists. Words, like laughter, draw upon 
one’s strength, and neither had an ounce to spare. 

It was useless to try to slip the nippers on the wrists of 
Warner. He was fighting too furiously. Ely therefore 
concentrated his strength in the single effort to conquer 
him. 

He probably would have succeeded, for, after all, he 
was the equal of the other in muscular power and his 
superior in science, but fate played more than one queer 
prank with the actors in the drama of that evening. 

It has been stated that a third party precipitated him- 
self into the race. The delay caused by the collision be- 
tween the principals gave this person time to arrive on 
the scene. 

He was Mayor Herkins, whose withdrawal from the 
immediate neighborhood of the bank did not signify the 


BANK BURGLARY. 


89 


withdrawal of his interest in the expected events. Fol- 
lowing the request of Watchman Ely, he took position in 
one of the side streets, from which he could quickly reach 
the bank should it become necessary. 

Catching sight of a man running with another in hot 
pursuit, the mayor felt that duty required him to take 
part. Not the equal of either the fugitive or pursuer in 
point of speed, he still made such good progress that he 
soon reached them after they came together for the sec- 
ond time. 

The chief executive had armed himself for this busi- 
ness. Beside the revolver in his pocket, he carried a po- 
liceman’s billy under his coat. This he drew while on 
the run, concluding to leave the deadlier weapon for a 
more serious emergency. 

Although Mayor Herkins was a sensible man, yet this 
was the first time he had ever been engaged in an affair 
of this nature, and he became a trifle rattled. He ought 
to have kept away altogether, or delegated his functions 
to one of his officers. 

He saw two men struggling on the ground, the one 
underneath striving desperately to exchange positions 
with the other, and almost succeeding despite the deter - 
mined resistance of the upper man. 

One of the parties was the new watchman, and the 
other a stranger. There was no saying, as far as the 
mayor saw, which was getting the best of the struggle, 
so he interfered at the critical moment. 

Time was so precious that the town’s executive could 
not pause to take aim, but when his club came down the 
blow did execution. 

One of the contestants toppled over, stunned for the 


90 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


instant, while the other, struggling to his feet, was off 
again at the highest bent of his speed. 

“Confound you ! Why did you strike me V' demanded 
the irate Ely, quickly recovering himself. 

“I — really— beg a thousand pardons — but it looks as if 
I had made a mistake, Mr. Ely ; I hope you’ll excuse me.” 

“Go home and go to bed ; you don’t know how to hunt 
this game !” was the angry response of Ely, who, seeing 
that not a second was to be spared, dashed off a second 
time in pursuit of the fugitive. 

The latter was using his slight advantage to the utmost. 
Had the delay of the watchman lasted twenty seconds 
longer the criminal must have effected his escape. 

The noise of pistol-firing naturally attracted attention 
in that part of the town, even though the hour was late. 
Making no reply to the numerous questions of the ex- 
cited people, the chagrined mayor hastened after the fly- 
ing couple. 

The new watchman’s head was ringing from the effects 
of the blow, but he concentrated all his energy upon the 
task before him and ran at his highest speed, determined 
to have his man at all costs. 

Bike Warner vaulted over a low railing in front of a 
house, sped across the yard and darted round the build- 
ing to the rear. Kneeland Ely did the same a few rods 
behind him. 

The instant the fugitive was out of sight he looked 
around for something in the nature of a refuge. It was 
useless to run in this fashion, when he was certain of be- 
ing overtaken. If he could dart into some cover, possibly 
he might throw his pursuer off the track. 

But there must not be a moment’s delay in finding the 
refuge. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


91 


Glancing to the right and left in his frantic search, he 
saw in the shadows the open door of a small building 
and made for it. 

At the moment he was about to plunge through the 
opening a huge dog bounded out almost into his face. 
The fugitive wheeled and leaped the fence at the rear 
and continued his flight. 

The mastiff started to follow, but just then Kneeland 
Ely, under full sail, came upon the scene. The dog con- 
cluded that he would serve his purpose as well as the 
other and went for him. 

He was a formidable brute, and the watchman did not 
mean to let him sink his fangs into his leg or throat. Be- 
sides, he was tired of this interference with his perform- 
ance of duty ; it was becoming monotonous. 

The canine was in earnest, and with a threatening 
growl came like a hurricane for the watchman. 

“I’ll settle your case for you!” muttered Ely, aiming 
with such care that the single bullet bored its way 
through the skull of the dog and stretched him lifeless. 

The interruption had caused slight delay, but not 
enough to defeat the purpose of the pursuit. 

Ely had kept the fugitive in his field of vision, and sped 
after him with redoubled energy. 

Bike Warner made the fatal mistake of not keeping in 
the rear of the dwellings on the outskirts, among which 
he might have found some chance of temporary shelter. 
Instead of doing that, however, he began making his 
way back to the street from which he had fled. 

The hot pace was beginning to tell upon pursuer and 
pursued— much more, however, upon the latter, for a life 
of dissipation saps the strength of any one. Bike Warner 


92 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


must quickly discover some refuge or turn about and have 
it out with Ely, who was now fresher and stronger than he. 

At the rear of a handsome house facing the avenue was 
a small wooden structure, one of several others that were 
used for domestic fowls, pigeons and pet animals. It was 
two stories in height, but the swinging open door was so 
near the ground that a moderate leap on the part of the 
fugitive^ carried the upper half of his body through, and 
he quickly clambered out of sight. 

Ely had no objection to this, for he knew the man was 
“leaping into the dark,” and had no knowledge of what 
the issue would be. The pursuer quickly made the cir- 
cuit of the structure to learn what means of egress it pos- 
sessed, in order to prevent his man stealing a march upon 
him. 

There was a door on the opposite side, facing the rear 
of the residence, but it was reached directly from the 
ground. The ends of the little building were without 
any other opening. 

By keeping the front and rear under his eye, he could 
hold Bike Warner securely ca*ged. It will be admitted, 
however, that it is no easy matter for a person to 
watch the front and back of a house, with an alert foe 
inside on the lookout for a chance to elude him. 

As the best that could be done, Ely drew off as far as 
his surroundings would permit and took position oppo- 
site one of the ends of the structure. By doing this he 
would detect the fugitive before he could run far. 

Bike Warner, having found the refuge, made the best 
possible use of it, though he must have seen it could not 
serve him long. He did not show himself, but gave his 
main attention for some time to regaining his wind and 
strength. He kept an eye also on the upper and lower 


BANK BURGLARY. 


93 


doors. He had landed on his feet in the structure with- 
out mishap. 

After a few minutes’ rest he began groping about to 
make sure of his location. 

This was not satisfactory. The sides of the building 
showed so few streaks of moonlight through the crevices 
that he struck a match and held it over his head. 

The building was about a dozen feet square and high. 
Its purpose was the storage of hay, but there were only 
a few handfuls of dried grass on the floor. 

He blew out the match and waited. 

Kneeland Ely had been in that vicinity twice before, 
and that, too, within the past couple of hours. His keen 
perception enabled him to recognize the spot, even though 
his view-point was not favorable. 

It was curious that the fleeing burglar should have 
taken refuge on the property of President Dillingham, 
but such was the fact. 

Ely’s greatest present fear was that of another dog pre- 
cipitating himself upon the scene. That the thing did 
not occur within the following few minutes authorized 
the conclusion that Mr. Dillingham was not the owner of 
a canine. 

The watchman felt that he had his man caged, but he 
dreaded the enforced waiting it compelled. It was easy 
to follow Bike Warner through the open window and 
have it out with him, but no bravery could excuse such 
an act. It was like hunting a burglar with a lighted 
candle : the advantage is all with the criminal, who has 
the best chance possible to pick off the other without risk 
to himself. 

But Ely was anxious to learn what was going on at the 
bank. Matters there must have reached and passed a 


94 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


crisis by this time. It was a pity that he should be com- 
pelled to stand idle, waiting for the fugitive to venture 
out and try it again or to surrender. If the latter was to 
be the issue it was not likely to take place for a number 
of hours. 

The trees and outbuilding were in alternate moonlight 
and shadow. The watchman was on the alert and listen- 
ing, when the outlines of a man appeared approaching 
the rear of the grounds from the front. He was either 
some one belonging to the Dillingham residence or lie 
had come through the front gate. 

When the moonlight fell upon the individual, Ely, with 
strange emotions, recognized him as his old acquaint- 
ance, Mayor Herkins. 

“He has his club in hand, too,” muttered the watch- 
man. “I wonder whether he isn’t satisfied with that 
blow and wants to try it over again. ’ ’ 

The executive was anxious to do all he could to repair 
his blunder. He had striven hard to keep up with the 
procession, and managed to gain enough knowledge of 
the whereabouts of the two men to believe they were not 
far from the rear of President Dillingham’s residence. So 
he looked for them in that place, and thus met Kneeland 
Ely. 

It took but a minute to explain the situation. 

“He’s in there,” added Ely, pointing to the small 
whitewashed house ; “and we shall have to wait until he 
is ready to surrender. ’ ’ 

“I see no need of that.” 

“What can we do?” 

“I will bring some of my men and fetch him to terms.” 

“ £ A stag at bay is a dangerous foe, ’ but that is the best 
thing to do, after all. ’ ’ 


BANK BURGLARY. 


95 


“Can you hold him here till we come back?” 

“I’ll guarantee to do that. I only wish he would come 
out where I can have a chance at him. ” 

But the fact that Mayor Herkins was the executive 
head of the enterprising town of Berwyck suddenly broke 
upon that official with all its weight. It was not to be 
supposed that the fugitive crouching in the barn was 
aware of the overwhelming fact. 

“Wait till I speak to him,” said the mayor, walking 
toward the open window. 

“Don’t go too close or he’ll fire at you,” warned the 
watchman. 

“He will not, after I tell him who I am.” 

The official had no intention of entering the building, 
but, pausing just below the open door, he called : 

“Helloa, you in there!” 

“I hear you,” came from within. 

“I am the mayor of Berwyck. I summon you to sur- 
render.” 

“Why don’t you come and take me?” 

“If you refuse to give yourself up, I will bring those 
here who will compel you.” 

“What will you do with me if I knock under?” 

“That remains to be seen ; all I can promise is that you 
shall have justice done you.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” was the grim response; 
“but what is your charge against me? I haven’t done 
anything.” 

The mayor was about to attempt an impressive reply, 
when Ely whispered : 

“Tell him you do not know of any charge. The fellow 
hasn’t committed any overt act, nor done anything more 
than give me a pretty good tussle.” 


96 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“All you will have to do is to prove your innocence of 
complicity in the robbery of our bank.” 

This must have startled the burglar, for, added to what 
had already taken place, it proved that the intention of 
himself and confederates had become known to the au- 
thorities. 

Doubtless he held more than one uncomfortable thought 
concerning the man who had thus run him down, but 
unmistakably he was in a bad box. 

“I think it’s you that’ll have to do the proving business, 
but I’ll give myself up,” was the unexpected addenda of 
the fugitive. 

Mayor Herkins must have felt flattered by this defer- 
ence to his exalted position. 

That Bike Warner was in earnest was proven the next 
minute by his action. 

“Meet me at the front door of my residence,” he said, 
and the couple passed to that side. Then he came forth 
and stood before them. 

“As a guarantee of good faith,” remarked Kneeland 
Ely, “you will hand over that pistol to Mayor Herkins.”* 

The fellow complied. As he did so, the three were 
standing in the full moonlight. He turned and looked so 
keenly in the countenance of Kneeland Ely that the lat- 
ter smiled and asked : “Do you know me, Bike?” 

Warner muttered something ugly and replied : 

“Yes; and I’ll get even with you for this.” 

“All right; it’s fair warning, but just now you are 
under. ’ ’ 

At the request of Mayor Herkins the watchman walked 
on one side of the prisoner, so as to help guard against 
any attempt at escape on his part. Shortly after Bike 
Warner was safely behind lock and key. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


97 


CHAPTER X. 

“ HE WAS HIT HARD.” 

Meanwhile, a lively scene was going on within the 
Berwyck Bank. 

Policemen Brown and Smith heard the parties at the 
lock of the outer door while the town clock was booming 
the midnight hour, and they quietly rose to their feet. 
It will be remembered that they were at the rear in the 
directors’ room where they decided to remain for the 
present. 

Though they had discussed the expected visit over and 
over again, and tried to fix upon their own line of ac- 
tion, it was impossible to do so except in a general way, 
inasmuch as much, if not everything, depended upon the 
course taken by the visitors. 

If the latter should investigate the interior before be- 
ginning their work and enter the directors’ apartment, it 
would precipitate matters. The battle would be on at 
once. 

The door connecting with the outer room was on a 
slight crack, and the officers stood side by side, waiting 
and listening. 

That the burglars Were experts could not be doubted. 
It took them but a few seconds to open the outer door 
with one of their skeleton keys. Then they were inside 
with the door shut but not locked. One of them, Paff 
Higgens, carried a large bundle under his arm, while his 
companion, Hake Hoover, held a goodly sized gripsack 
in his hand. 

Naturally, they gave their first attention to the watch- 


98 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


man. Old Mr. Otter was stretched out on the floor in 
the condition of the seven sleepers. 

“Well, I’ll be hanged!’’ exclaimed Higgens. “He’s 
a model watchman; I wish we could always have such 
to deal with.’’ 

“Better gag him,” suggested the other, who laid his 
gripsack on the counter of the bank. 

“I don’t see the need of that.” 

He emphasized the last remark by giving the watch- 
man a shove with his foot. The latter showed no sensi- 
bility to the disturbance. 

“Let him alone, then,” added Hoover; “no need of 
wasting any time on him.” 

And therein the criminal made a woful blunder. 

The couple stood for a minute or two intently listening. 
Nothing to cause misgiving was heard. The gas was 
turned up and burning, and by its light the eyes, roving 
hither and i hither, detected naught suspicious. 

“Let’s take a look in there,” said Hoover, moving to- 
ward the directcio room. 

“Hold on,” interposed his confederate; “remember, 
we’ve got much to do. It isn’t likely any of the bank 
men are lodging there. ’ ’ 

Hoover accepted the suggestion, and the two lightly 
climbed over the counter, thereby placing themselves in 
front of the heavy door of the vault. Then they began 
their preparations. 

The bundle, being unrolled, displayed several pieces of 
muslin, cloth and a couple of gum coats. These were to 
deaden the force of the explosion necessary to open the 
safe. 

In addition, the gripsack and bundle contained- a 


BANK BURGLARY. 


99 


quantity of fuse, putty and a valuable kit of burglars’ 
implements of the finest make. 

These were for active operations. They did not know 
the combination nor had they any means of obtaining it. 
It would not take them long, with their admirable tools 
and their own expertness, to bore through the door of 
the vault, insert the powder, packing the space around 
the fuse with putty, so as to render the explosion com- 
plete. The carpets, cloth and gum coats carefully spread 
over the safe would so muffle the sound that it was not 
likely to attract the attention of persons in the street. 

Before operations could be begun the cough of the 
sentinel outside was heard. The couple were doing noth- 
ing to make any noise, but they paused and listened. 

Hoover vaulted lightly over the counter and turned 
the key in the lock. Should they find it necessary to 
leave in haste the key could be readily turned, while they 
were naturally averse to having any one intrude upon 
them. 

The cough of Bike Warner was repeated, and for the 
first time the burglars were alarmed. Could it be their 
scheme was discovered? 

They hurriedly retied the bundle and closed the grip- 
sack, ready to flee the moment they were warned to do so. 

The understanding with Bike Warner was that the 
cough meant some one was passing the front of the build- 
ing. It did not of necessity signify peril to his confed- 
erates If he emitted a sharp whistle that meant “Run 
at once !” 

But the whistle was not sounded. It will be recalled 
that Mr. Bike W arner was so engaged just then in a con- 
troversy with Kneeland Ely that he forgot about his 
friends in the building. 


100 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“It’s all right,” whispered Hake Hoover; “I thought 
everybody in this town was asleep by this time.” 

Justice must be done Watchman Otter while he lies 
slumbering on the floor. In his remorse over the occur- 
rences of a couple of nights before, he had condemned 
himself too severely. Besides, there was a reason for 
his sleeping through those hours which had not yet come 
to light. 

After his discharge he had slumbered at night like the 
majority of mankind. Having been awake through the 
day, and then summoned to his old duties again, just 
when he was ready to go to bed, he was in sore need of 
sleep. 

He had now been unconscious a couple of hours or 
more, and was in that state that he was liable to awake 
at any moment and make trouble. Therein, we repeat, 
the burglars made a grievous error in not tying him and 
filling his mouth with something to restrain his power 
of speech. 

Appreciating the value of the moments, and believing 
everything favorable, Higgens and Hoover took out their 
paraphernalia again and made ready for the serious bus- 
iness before them. 

The first thing was to drill a hole through the front of 
the vault, just above the combination lock. Higgens 
was on the point of beginning the operation when the 
door of the directors’ room creaked. Policeman Brown 
had accidentally moved it an inch or so. 

“Paff,” whispered Hoover, straightening up and look- 
ing to the rear, “did you hear that?” 

“It was only the creaking of a door.” 

“But it wouldn’t creak unless some one moved it. I’m 
going to look in there.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


101 


“All right; go ahead.” 

Hake Hoover again bounded like an acrobat over the 
counter and walked toward the directors’ room. He had 
noticed through the crack of the door that the gas was 
burning beyond. That, however, did not of necessity sig- 
nify anything, nor was he apprehensive, but he wished 
the full assurance that could only come with the absolute 
knowledge that no person was in the smaller apartment. 

The door opened inward, and, without any hesitation, 
Hoover shoved it back and stepped across the threshold. 

In the act of doing so he received a blow from a police- 
man’s billy which sent him reeling backward. Before 
he could recover, Smith, who had delivered the stroke, 
was upon him. Brown bounded past his friend, and, 
leaving him to attend to his man, gave his attention to 
Paff Higgens. 

“Hands up!” called the officer, leveling his revolver 
at the man within the inclosure, who was on the point 
of beginning operations upon the vault. 

It is in such crises, when men accustomed to the use of 
firearms are concerned, that the whole question is often 
settled in the space of a single second. Brief as is that 
interval— the mere passing of a breath— it not infre- 
quently decides as to which shall secure “the drop” on 
the other. 

Paff Higgens, confident that no peril threatened, was 
preparing to drill a hole in the steel door of the safe, when 
his companion was hurled backward by the blow of Po- 
liceman Smith ; and, taking only enough time to leap 
past him, the other officer pointed his pistol at Higgens 
and commanded him to throw up his hands. But, lo ! 
in those two or three seconds Higgens had dropped his 
drill, whipped out his revolver, straightening up while 


102 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 

doing so, and it was his weapon ihat was leveled, like 
the finger of fate, at the breast of the dauntless officer. 

Not only that, but instead of obeying the summons the 
criminal fired. 

No man could have been more courageous than Police- 
man Brown, who, though struck, discharged his weapon 
in turn and went over the counter at a single bound. 

The daring act was unexpected by Higgens, who was 
so sure of his man that he lowered his pistol. Before he 
could bring it up again the revolver was knocked from 
his hand and the officer closed with him. 

Had Brown been himself, his superb strength and skill 
would have quickly made him master of the other. As 
it was, he was wounded and fighting at great odds, for 
his own shot had inflicted little more than a scratch upon 
his antagonist. 

It is wonderful how often the best of marksmen fire 
wildly when at close quarters. 

Smith, the equal of his comrade in the respects named, 
was at no such disadvantage. Indeed, his blow proved a 
great help, for, before the half -stunned Hoover could re- 
cover himself a more resounding stroke descended, fol- 
lowed by another, which placed Hoover hors du combat. 
Then the officer began adjusting the nippers. 

The reports of the weapons, almost in his ears, told of 
the desperate nature of the contest between the other 
couple ; but Smith did not dare abandon his man until 
he had him secure. Just before this was effected Hig- 
gens began resisting. Ultimately he was brought into 
subjection, but it took longer than was anticipated. 

And during those precious seconds it was a struggle 
for life on the part of Policeman Brown, for his strength 
left him rapidly. Quick to see his advantage. Paff Hig- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


103 


gens put forth every ounce of power. By a fierce wrench 
he flung the officer off his chest and against the floor. 
Then in a twinkling he became his master. 

The case was one of those in which the burglars threw 
all restraint to the winds. They were caught, and could 
escape only bj- putting their assailants out of the way. 
There was no intention of showing mercy, knowing as 
they did that none awaited them. 

The brave Brown did his best, but was unequal to the 
task. He was obliged to succumb, as he had often said 
he believed he would have to do sooner or later. 

Before the burglar, who had now become the assailant, 
could follow up his advantage an awkward form scram- 
bled over the counter, caught him by the nape of his coat 
and hurled him sideways against the door of the safe. 

“Consarnyou! ain’t you ashamed of yourself? Stay 
there, or I’ll hurt you!” 

It was Walker Otter, the watchman, who acted and 
spoke thus. 

His nap having ended, he was striving to do his duty. 

Still, he would have been no match for the younger 
and more wiry antagonist had he not received help in turn. 

Smith, having secured his man, also sprang over the 
counter into the inclosure to learn how Brown was mak- 
ing out. 

There was enough light for him to grasp the situation 
at a glance. 

The motionless figure of his comrade, stretched full 
length on the floor, gave him the belief that he had been 
killed. It will be understood, therefore, that when 
Smith brought down his club on the head of Paff Hig- 
gens a second blow would have been superfluous. 

A twinkling sufficed to secure him against doing any 


104 THE GREAT BERWYCK 

harm, when he should come to again. Then Smith gave 
attention to his companion. 

He speedily saw he was badly hurt, though to what ex- 
tent he could not determine. 

“Otter, go out and bring help as quickly as you can,” 
said Smith to the watchman. 

“Yes, sir. Gracious! if I had been a second later it 
would have been all over with him, wouldn’t it?” 

‘ ‘Silence ! Off with you !” 

The watchman lost no time in following orders. He 
was astonished when he found a strange key in the door. 

“How’d that get there?” he asked himself, drawing 
out the implement and inspecting it by the gaslight; “it 
ain’t mine, for that’s in my pocket.” 

He thought he did a clever thing when he used his own 
key to unfasten the lock, and flung the other away upon 
reaching the street. 

“That shets off any ugly remarks about that," was his 
satisfied conclusion, though, had he thought a little faster, 
he must have seen that it could not have mended matters. 

The mayor and Watchman Ely were in another part of 
the town, but of the half-dozen policemen doing night 
duty in Berwyck one was speedily found by the watch- 
man. When he was told what had taken place he acted 
with promptness. 

A physician was quickly secured and taken to the bank. 
It was strange that the encounter within the building 
had not become generally known. The only persons 
found there were Brown, Smith and the two prisoners. 

An examination of the wounded officer showed that he 
had been hit hard, but the physician pronounced the 
wound not necessarily dangerous. The policeman had 


BANK BURGLARY. 


105 


rallied, and was sitting up and talking coolly over the 
occurrence. 

"I tell you,” he said, with a faint smile, as he looked 
at the watchman, “if it hadn’t been for you, Otter, Billy 
Brown would have resigned for good this evening.” 

They were sweet words to the old man, and were heard 
by all. They were certain to be repeated to President 
Dillingham, and, if not too much explanation was de- 
manded by him, were likely to restore his old situation 
to Otter. 

A carriage was procured and Brown was taken to his 
home, where, it may as well be said, he eventually re- 
covered, and received a generous reward, as did his com- 
panion, for his bravery in defending the Berwyck Bank 
against the burglars. 

The latter, sullen and refusing to speak, were safely 
lodged in the lock-up, about ten minutes before Bike 
Warner was placed in durance by Mayor Herkins and 
Kneeland Ely. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“WHO WAS THE PERSON?” 

President Dillingham had just completed his break- 
fast, and had sat down in his easy-chair with his paper 
and cigar, when the door-bell tinkled, and the servant 
announced that a gentleman wished to see him. 

The banker was surprised when the caller was shown 
in to find he was Kneeland Ely, his “new watchman.” 

“I hardly expected you. Nothing wrong, I hope, at 
the bank?” 

“No; but I’ve called to give you notice that I’m going 
to quit.” 


106 


THE GREAT fJERWYCK 


The quitting of a watchman was not so serious a mat- 
ter as to cause the banker much solicitude, but he in- 
quired: 

“Why do you leave after serving only a couple of 
nights?” 

“I’m satisfied Providence never intended me for a 
watchman in a bank. I can’t tempt fate any longer.” 

This was a curious remark, and Mr. Dillingham said : 

“I do not understand you.” 

“You heard of the row I had with a lot of burglars 
when watchman at the Shawmere Bank?” 

“The manner in which you acquitted yourself there 
was your strongest recommendation to me.” 

“That would have been well enough if it had been the 
end of the confounded business, but the burglars were 
after me again last night. ’ ’ 

“WHAT!” demanded the astounded president. 

“Your bank was broken into again, and we had a high 
time with them ; but they made a bad mess of it. for 
once. ’ ’ 

“Heavens! what does all this mean? Tell me about it.” 

Kneeland Ely gave the account. He adhered, in the. 
main, to the facts as they have already been made known 
to the reader, but indulged in several variations in the 
course of the narrative. 

It was necessary to do this to make the point he had in 
mind when calling upon the banker. 

The chief difference lay in the description of the part 
taken by the old watchman, Walker Otter. This was 
made creditable in the highest degree. Indeed, had that 
individual heard what Mr. Ely said about him he would 
have blushed to the top of his bald head. 

“You see,” said the visitor, “I had picked up several 


BANK BURGLARY. 


107 


hints during the evening which satisfied me that some- 
thing was wrong, so I got Walker to take his place inside 
while I watched outside.” 

“You had previously told Mayor Herkins, you say?” 

“Yes ; it was he who helped me catch the third burglar 
that was stationed on the outside — captured here on your 
own premises. ’ ’ 

“Bless me ! and I never heard a thing of it.” 

“Otter did his duty like a man. Policeman Brown is 
free to say that if it had not been for O'tter the criminal 
with whom he grappled would have finished him. ’ ’ 

“And Walker kept awake, did he?” 

“He was about the widest awake man those burglars 
ever ran against!” was the hearty comment of Knee- 
land Ely. 

“I am glad to hear that. Perhaps I was a little hasty 
with him. Now that you have decided to leave, I pre- 
sume I can do nothing better than try him again. ” 

“The wisest step possible under the circumstances,” 
observed the caller, who thus scored his point. “I will 
tell him, if you wish, that he may resume business at the 
old stand.” 

“I will see him in the course of the day, and add a few 
instructions. So you think these safe-breakers have taken 
a fancy to follow you round the country?” 

“What better proof could I ask than what they have 
given?” 

“Nonsense ! but if your mind is made up, I will not try 
to dissuade you. I will pay you for the time you have 
served, adding something in acknowledgment of what 
you did last evening.” 

“I’m obliged to you, but I can’t accept anything for 


108 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


such short service ; let it be added to Otter’s wages ; he 
earned it more than I did .’ 7 

“You will go back to the city at once?” 

“No ; I wish to keep away from there until I get more 
used to my trouble — you understand.” said Ely, deject- 
edly. “I may stay in Berwyck for a few days, but not 
long. ’ ’ 

President Dillingham seemed never to tire of asking 
about the occurrences of the night before. His caller 
gave the minutest particulars, even to the appearance of 
the tools and paraphernalia left by the visitors in the 
bank, which had been turned over to the authorities. He 
took care that the interests of Otter were not forgotten 
in these repeated narrations. 

Finally nothing remained to tell. It was not yet nine 
o’clock, but the president made ready to go to the’bank. 

“Strange that these men should make the attempt im- 
mediately after we had suffered so serious a loss. Do you 
see anything in that?” 

“Only a simple and yet remarkable coincidence,” re- 
plied Ely, whose manner of conversation impressed his 
late employer as considerably above his station in life. 
“I have never known of such a thing, but that’s no rea- 
son why it shouldn’t happen.” 

“You think these parties had heard nothing about the 
robbery the other night?” 

“The attempt itself shows they had not. You could 
ask for no better proof than that. ’ ’ 

Mr. Dillingham had risen to go, but sat down again, 
his face slightly flushed. 

“How many men were concerned in this?” 

“Three ; and we have them all.” 

Kneeland Ely had reasons of his own for making no 


BANK BURGLARY. 


109 


reference to Volney Biggs, whose hand had not ap- 
peared. 

“That’s fortunate, and they will get good long terms. 
How— will this affect the investigation of the real rob- 
bery?” 

Had the caller been Detective Fagan, President Dil- 
lingham would have plied him with numerous other ques- 
tions, but he hesitated when he remembered that this 
man was only a simple watchman. 

“Of course I picked up enough around the bank,” said 
Ely, “to learn about the big loss you suffered some nights 
ago, and, if you’ll allow me, this can’t affect that in any 
way.” 

Ely purposely spoke in a louder voice than usual. He 
was sure, at the same time, he was not mistaken in be- 
lieving that a faint rustling on the stairs was made by 
some one attracted by his words. 

Miss Mina Crosslands must have been stirred by a pro- 
found interest thus to play the part of eavesdropper. 

“I should hope not,” remarked Mr. Dillingham, rising, 
“for there, after all, is the real task before us. I am so 
interested in what you have told me that you will ex- 
cuse me for going at once to the bank.” 

“I am surprised that you haven’t* cut short my call be- 
fore this,” remarked Ely, accompanying him through 
the hall and passing out the door, while the president 
lingered a moment to bid good-by to his niece. 

Twenty minutes later Kneeland E_y presented hirnsen 
at the humble residence of Walker Ctter, the old watch- 
man, whose praises almost every one in Berwyck was 
sounding for the pluck and bravery shown the night be- 
fore. 

Policeman Brown’s compliments were inspired bygrat- 


110 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


itude, for. as has been shown, the intervention of Otter 
really saved his life. 

Smith, equally good-hearted, saw a chance of benefit- 
ing the aged servant, and was glad to do it, especially 
when Ely suggested such a course was likely to secure 
Otter his old situation again. 

So the heavy somnolence earlier in the evening was 
not made known to any outsiders. 

The sagacious Ely was convinced that there was some- 
thing about the strange drowsiness of the old man which 
had not yet been explained. 

He meant to get at the bottom facts, which was his 
reason for presenting himself at the home of the watch- 
man, with the request that no callers should be allowed 
to see the man until he was through with him. 

Opening the way for what he wished to say by a num- 
ber of compliments over his bravery, Ely quickly came 
to the point. 

‘ Otter, only three persons know that when the burg- 
lars entered the bank last night — I mean three persons 
beside them— you were sound asleep, and had been for a 
long time. Those three are Policemen Brown and Smith, 
and myself. ’ ’ 

“How did you larn anything about it?” asked the 
watchman, sheepishly. 

“From Brown a::d Smith. But you needn’t worry; 
we shall keep it to ourselves; we’ve agreed on that. 
What’s more. I’ll °:et your place back for you, provided 
you do me a favor or two.” 

“Mr. Ely, there isn’t anything I won’t do if you’ll fix 
that, for it’s almost broke my heart,” said Otter, in a trem- 
bling voice. 


BANK BtTRGLARY. 


Ill 


“1 want you to tell me why it was you went to sleep 
last night, almost as soon as you entered the building. ’ ’ 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” was the puzzled reply. 

‘ ‘And then on the night of the robbery you did the 
same thing. ’ ’ 

“Yes, and that’s what gits me, too.” 

“And you h&ve never done anything like it before?” 

“Well, no; not exactly. I can’t deny that, now and 
then, when everything was still and looked right, I have 
dozed for a few minutes in my chair, but never anything 
like on them two nights.” 

“But you told President Dillingham that that had been 
your custom for years.” 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” remarked the watchman, 
like a schoolboy detected in a falsehood. I was sort of 
desprit, mad and disgusted, and—” 

“And what? Out with it. I’m your friend.” 

“I was afeard if I owned that that was the only night 
I slept so sound some folks would think there was an 
understanding between them wicked folks and me. That’s 
why I made out it was a common thing with me.” 

“Ah ! that idea wasn’t a bad one; but we haven’t yet 
got at the reason why on two nights you should have 
slept so heavily. One cause last evening may have been 
your wakefulness through the day. You were in need 
of slumber, but not to the extent of dropping off almost 
as soon as you sat down on the settee.” 

“That sort of puzzles me, but I can’t explain it.” 

“Otter, has anybody forbidden you to talk about the 
robbery the other night?” 

This abrupt question served to put the old watchman 
on his guard. He had lost sight of the injunction of 


112 


THE GREAT BEKWVCK 


President Dillingham, that he should not allow any one 
to speak with him about the burglary. 

“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, in dismay. “I forgot 
all about that.” 

He then told what the banker had said to him. 

Ely laughed and replied : 

“Of course. I had a talk with Mr. Dillingham this 
morning. You need have no fear on that score.” 

The old watchman was only partly satisfied. If he was 
to regain his former place he could not be too careful 
about offending his employer. At the same time he was 
grateful to his visitor. 

“You are not a drinking man. Otter?” 

‘ Never in all my life. ’ ’ 

“How long have you suffered with the rheumatism?” 

“It has been growing on me for more’n two years.’ 

“What do you do for it?” 

“Nothing of account. I reckon it’s old age and can't 
be helped.” 

“Have you taken any medicine?” 

“Yes, sir,” waa the prompt response. 

“Have you tried anything new lately?” 

“On the afternoon of the robbery I took a new remedy. ’ 

“Did you apply it externally or internally?” 

The old man was not quite clear as to the meaning of 
these terms. Ely explained them. 

“I took it infernally; that is, I swallered if':. ’ 

“How often — that is, on the day ef the robbery?” 

“Once, I think it was.” 

“When did you take the dose?” 

“During the night of the robbery, after I had gone on 
watch.” 

“Why was that?” 


113 


BANK BURGLARY. 

“Them was the orders/’ 

“Given by whom? The doctor?” 

The old watchman was growing uneasy under this 
sharp questioning. He did not reply. His silence was 
of itself an answer to the inquiry of Ely. who held his 
curiosity well in hand. 

“You hesitate ; you have gone so far that you need not 
fear to go further.” 

“I’d prefer to say nothing more, Mr. Ely, for it's aginst 
orders, you know.” 

“But you have already violated orders. Remember, 
I’m to get back your place for you. ” 

“When you’ve done that come back to me.” 

“I have already done it, my friend.” 

The watchman looked at his caller in wondering doubt. 

“I fixed it this morning before coming here. You will 
receive notice to-day.” 

It was a remarkable instance of how good fortune 
sometimes plays into the hand of a person, for, at that 
very moment, a knock sounded on the outer door. 

Otter had cautioned his wife to tell any one who called 
that he would be engaged for a time and could not see 
him. 

The murmur of voices was heard in the hall. Then 
his wife dismissed the person, and came smiling into the 
room where the couple were sitting. 

“Mr. Dillingham has just sent word that he wants 
you to go back to work this evening, and will see you 
this afternoon.” 

It was a lucky intervention for Kneeland Ely. He 
quietly smiled as the pleased face of the old man was 
turned toward him. 

“Don’t you believe me now, Otter?” 


114 


THE GREAT BERVVYCK 


“Yes, there ain't no disputing that." 

“If it was so easy to fix matters with Mr. Dillingham 
it will be just as easy to fix them the other way. All 
I’ve got to do is to let him know the truth about last 
night and to tell him what you have already said to me 
about the robbery.” 

It was a cruel advantage to take of the old man, but 
Kneeland Ely believed the end justified the means. 

“I won’t disturb you if you’ll go a little further with 
your answers.” 

“Have you quit?” asked Otter, filled with pleasure 
over his good fortune. 

“I called on Mr. Dillingham, as I told you,. this morn- 
ing, said I was through, and asked him to take you back. 
But let that go. Was it the doctor who ordered you to 
take that medicine for the rheumatism?” 

“No, it was no doctor at all.” 

“Who was it?” 

“The man who gave the bottle to me.” 

“Of course; he took the place of a doctor. Where is 
the bottle?” 

Again Otter hesitated. Ely sat motionless, with his 
eyes fixed on his face. 

“I have it in the cupboard in the other room.” 

“Bring it to me; if you don’t, Otter. I shall have you 
discharged again within half an hour. ’ ’ 


The host, with a helpless air, left the room. He was 
gone but a minute when he came back with a two-ounce 
bottle in his hand, but Ely noticed it was empty. 

“What’s become of the medicine that was in it?” 


“I took it all.” 
“When?” 





BANK BURGLARY. 


115 


“Last night, after going into the bank : I orter took it 
before that, but forgot it. ’ ’ 

“What directions did you receive when your friend 
handed you this medicine?” v 

“I was to take a good dose of it that night, about ten 
o’clock, and that’s what I done.” 

“Did it help your rheumatism?” 

“I can’t say as to that, for I don’t ’spose I've give it a 
fair trial ; you see, there wasn’t much of it.” 

Kneeland Ely, while continuing his questioning, twist- 
ed out the cork and applied his nose to the opening. He 
was not a druggist, but he knew enough about decoctions 
to recognize on the instant the odor of laudanum. 

There could be no question any longer that on the 
night of the robbery Walker Otter had been deliberately 
drugged, and that later the thing was repeated, though in 
the latter instance Otter himself was wholly responsible. 

“Since the medicine is gone, I will keep this phial. 
Have no fear of my revealing anything ; you are safe ; 
all you have to do is to keep your own mouth closed.” 

The old man made a weak protest, but his caller quieted 
him, and put the phial in his pocket. 

“Did a certain party call at the bank on the night of 
the robbery and give you this medicine, with orders to 
swallow a big dose and tell no one about it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well ; now who was the person 

The elder looked his visitor in the eye and said : 

“I won’t tell you his name, if I have to lose my situa- 
tion agin for it, Mr. Ely; I’ve already told you more than 
I orter.” 

Kneeland Ely respected the old man’s scruples too 
much to press him. 


116 


THE GREAT BEEWYCK 


“Tell me if this man is connected with the bank. Otter; 
that’s all.” 

After a moment’s pause, the answer came: 

“Yes ; he has something to do with the bank.” 

“That’s enough : thanks. Give yourself no uneasiness ; 
I will look out for you.” 

The watchman seemed reassured by the words of his 
visitor, supplementing as they did the official notice of 
his reappointment to his old situation. 

Kneeland Ely bade him good-morning and passed out 
to the street. Disappointed in more than one respect, he 
muttered : 

“At any rate I have picked up a valuable point from 

him.” 

And yet the wisest man may be mistaken. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“OBLIGE ME BY LEAVING.” 

Kneeland Ely was still confronted by the most puz- 
zling problem that he had ever undertaken to solve. 

Pixley Fagan, who had come to Berwyck to unravel 
the mystery of the theft of one hundred thousand dollars 
from the bank of the town, was unaccountably missing. 
He and Ely had parted late on the previous afternoon, 
with a full understanding of what each was to do in the 
impending attempt upon the institution ; but, with that 
parting, the detective vanished as utterly as if the earth 
had opened and swallowed him. 

Yolney Biggs, a well-known criminal from New York 
City, and a member of the company engaged in the plot, 


BANK BURGLARY. 


117 


was, or had been, in Berwyck bn the preceding after- 
noon. He. too, was missing, and had never once appeared 
during the exciting events already recorded. 

What was his province in that affair? Why had he 
remained in the background, when he might have ren- 
dered material help to his confederates? 

These were questions that remained to be answered. 

The most discomforting conviction w^as that the ab- 
sence of the two men were directly connected with each 
other. Ely could not free himself from the belief, which 
necessarily implied the gravest peril to his friend. 

Though he had not an hour to spare in investigating, 
the extraordinary proceeding was self-evident; but, on 
the threshold, he was confronted by the dread that he 
was powerless. 

The tracing out of the guilty abstractor, or abstractors, 
of the funds could wait ; his province was to help the 
detective, or, if it should prove too late to do that, to 
bring home the crime of his taking off to the right parties. 

Uncertain of what he ought to do, Kneeland Ely re- 
sorted to a trifling artifice, from which he expected little, 
but which, as is often the case in affairs of this life, was 
the means of bringing about momentous results. 

First going to his lodging-place, he told the old couple 
that he would remain with them a few days longer. He 
had brought a small trunk to Berwyck, but left the house 
with a traveling-bag, supported by a strap over one 
shoulder. He made his way to the only hotel in town, 
and, registering, was assigned a room on the second floor, 
adjoining that which had been occupied by Pixley Fagan. 

A few inquiries disclosed that that gentleman’s luggage 
was still in his room, but that he had not been there after 
eating his supper, at six o’clock the night before. 


118 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


The register contained a new name — “John O’Kane, 
New York City” — the only arrival within the preceding 
twenty-four hours. Ely would have liked to make in- 
quiries regarding him, but concluded it was imprudent 
to do so ; opportunity was likely to present itself for see- 
ing the individual without drawing attention to the in- 
quirer. 

Ely had been in his room only a short time when he 
gained a chance for a brief stolen visit to the apartment 
of his friend. A quick, searching glance satisfied him 
that nothing was to be learned there, and he withdrew 
to his own quarters. 

The town, as was to be expected, was in a ferment over 
the occurrences of the night before. They could not be 
kept from the public, nor was there any reason to do so. 
The reporters were hot on the scent, a number speedily 
arriving from the metropolis. Ely had to submit to a 
number of interviews, all of which he accepted with the 
best nature ; but after he had told the story some twenty 
times, skillfully keeping back a number of the most im- 
portant points, he shook himself clear and went directly 
to the sheriff’s office at the county jail, whither the three 
prisoners had been removed. 

“Have they had many visitors?” he inquired. 

“The whole town is eager to see them, if I would per- 
mit,” replied the sheriff : “but I won’t. Do you want to 
interview them?” 

“No : I had enough last night. Time enough for me to 
meet them in the courtroom. ’ ’ 

“Seems to me,” remarked Sheriff Wanser, “that you 
got onto those fellows in pretty cute style. You must 
have had a tip.” 

“Sometimes a word heard by chance gives an unex- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


119 


pected clew,” replied the ealler, parrying the question; 
“good luck has much more to do with success in matters 
like that than skill. So they have had no visitors?” 

“Only one person — a lawyer.” 

“Who is he? One of your town folks?” 

“No ; a stranger, at least to me. He’s from New York, 
though it’s hard to understand how he could get here so 
soon.” 

“What’s his name?” 

The custodian of the county prisoners turned to the 
Visitors’ Book, on the desk near him, and, after a glance, 
replied : 

“John O’Kane.” 

“How long ago did he leave?” 

“He hasn’t left; he came about an hour since, intro- 
ducing himself as a lawyer and friend of the parties. I 
had no reason to disbelieve him, so I called one of the 
keepers to show him to their cells. Do you know the 
man?” 

“I have never met a person of that name.” 

“I think that’s the man going out now,” remarked the 
I sheriff , as the noise made by the opening and closing of 
I the outer door penetrated his office. 

Ely rose to his feet and walked to the front window of 
the room. The iron bars stretched across the panes on 
the outside did not interfere with his view of the yard 
and the path over which visitors passed in coming to and 
leaving the jail. 

A tall, well-dressed man was moving briskly toward 
the gate. Something in his figure and walk struck Ely 
familiarly, but he waited to gain a view of his face. 

This came when he reached the street. In the clear 
sunlight, the man’s countenance was fully revealed. 


120 


THE GREAT BERWICK 


It was as Ely suspected. John O’ Kane was one of the 
numerous aliases of Mr. \ olney Biggs, which itself was 
an alias. He was the individual that had just held an in- 
terview with the prisoners, and the man who, beyond 
question, had all to do with the disappearance of Detect- 
ive Fagan. 

Excusing himself, Ely hurried out and reached the 
street before his man was beyond sight. It was not diffi- 
cult, therefore, to follow him. 

Keeping upon the main avenue, Volney Biggs went 
straight to the office of Lawyer Murphy, the principal 
counselor in Berwyck. There he remained until noon. 

When he came out, he proceeded to the hotel and to 
his room. Fifteen minutes later Kneeland Ely was in 
his apartment, which was upon the same floor. 

Ely had undertaken a most difficult work in thus shad- 
owing Yolney Biggs. While ordinarily such a duty is 
not ranked among the highest arts that the professional 
detective must master, yet circumstances often arise 
which place it almost beyond achievement. 

It will be readily seen that the present case was one of 
them, for the man whom he was “piping” was one of the 
shrewdest criminals of his day, who was always on the 
alert for his mortal enemies— the officers of the law. A 
single misstep on the part of Ely, and his whole scheme 
would go to pieces. 

It has been stated that before hiring out to the bank as 
a watchman, Ely effected a number of changes in his 
personal appearance. Indeed, few of his old friends en- 
countering him on the streets of this quiet country town 
would have suspected his identity. 

But while a change of costume is easy, the transforma- 
tion of one’s personality is a far different matter. It can 


BANK BURGLARY. 


121 


be done so as to deceive the most watchful, where the 
light is poor and the circumstances favorable, but it may 
well be questioned whether the most skillful detective can 
conceal his identity from a pair of bright, inquiring eyes 
under the glare of the electric light or the glow of the 
noonday sun. 

At any rate, Kneeland Ely was so certain that if he 
met Volnev Biggs face to face during the daytime the 
criminal would identify him that he took every precau- 
tion to prevent such a meeting. 

He went without his noonday meal through fear of be- 
ing placed at the table with him. He closed and locked 
his door. His apartment, being next to that of his friend, 
commanded a view of the front and of the main street. 
He did not mean to let Biggs elude him again. 

There was every prospect of a long wait, and Ely as- 
sumed an easy position and lighted a cigar. He was in 
need of sleep, but his feelings were so wrought up that 
he had no fear of dropping into unconsciousness. 

A half-hour passed when his keen sense of hearing 
caught the sound of a cautious footstep in the hall out- 
side. Some one was stealing about and trying to avoid 
detection. 

“It’s Biggs,” concluded the watcher, “and he’s up to 
mischief. ’ ’ 

The catlike footsteps halted opposite his own door. 
Then Ely saw the knob silently turned. It went around 
far enough to draw the catch out of the lock. A gentle 
pressure followed, but the door, being fastened, did not 
yield. 

A second time the effort was made, with the same re- 
sult. 

Then the would-be intruder ceased. The key was in 


122 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


the lock. The door could not be opened without pushing 
it out and inserting another instrument. 

Holding his handkerchief, as if by accident, so as to 
conceal his features, Ely watched the door. He knew it 
was Biggs who was trying the lock, and he did not mean 
that he should gain a view of his face if he peered through 
the slight crevice beside the key. He therefore hid his 
features with his handkerchief. 

Something glistened, as if a diamond in the key had 
been disturbed during the manipulation. It was the re- 
flection of light against the eye of a person who was 
stooping down and trying to look into the room. Ely 
knew what it meant. 

The view could not have been very satisfactory, but 
Volney Biggs had to be content. He withdrew without 
perceptible noise. 

The little incident caused Kneeland Ely something like 
consternation, for it seemed to prove that the fellow had 
identified him. If such were the fact, the difficulty of 
the situation was immeasurably increased, for with Biggs 
warned, he would baffle almost any effort that could be 
brought against him. 

But sh ! 

Something was disturbed in the adjoining room. The 
noise was slight, but it was as if a chair had been gently 
stirred. 

The face of Kneeland Ely lightened. He understood 
now what it all meant. Volney Biggs was looking for 
Pixley Fagan’s room, and had missed it on the first trial. 
The detective had taken out his key, so the intruder 
opened it with a false one. 

Ely stepped over to the wall and pressed his ear against 


BANK BURGLARY. 


123 


it. He could readily hear the man stealthily moving 
around. 

The listener was indignant, and felt a strong impulse 
to burst into the room and thrust out the intruder upon 
his friend’s privacy. 

But that would have been impolitic to the last degree. 
It would bring the couple face to face, the very catastro- 
phe which Ely was so anxious to avoid. 

Besides, Biggs might readily plead a mistake, and ap- 
propriately demand what right Ely had to interfere. 

Whatever the errand of the intruder, it was quickly 
over, and he withdrew. Softly opening his own door, 
Ely listened. The next minute the man was heard de- 
scending the stairs. There being no call for secrecy in 
this movement, it was easy to hear his footsteps. 

Elj' darted to the front window, holding himself ready 
to follow the other ; but minute after minute passed with- 
out anything being seen of him. 

A man in the situation of Kneeland Ely cannot restrain 
himself from forming theories without number respect- 
ing the one great subject in his mind. It would be use- 
less to attempt to give those which came to him, the 
most being dismissed as soon as they assumed shape. It 
is only necessary to say that, for the first time since he 
had undertaken the singular task before him, Ely began 
to consider the possibility that his first supposition was 
wrong, and that, strange as was the disappearance of 
Detective Fagan, Yolney Biggs, after all, had nothing to 
do with it. 

The probabilities, however, still pointed the other way, 
and he was determined to keep the man under his eye. 

At the end of a half-hour Ely descended the stairs, re- 
solved to find out what had become of Biggs. 


124 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


He learned that he had been engaged with his dinner. 
Gripsack in hand, he was in the act of passing out thfe 
front door, as though he meant to leave the town. It was 
easy to hold him in sight without betraying himself, and 
Ely did so. 

Biggs walked at a leisurely pace to the railway station, 
where he purchased a ticket for New York and boarded 
the train which passed, at the end of. fifteen minutes. 

This might be a blind, but Ely believed the man in- 
tended to go to the metropolis. Nothing seemed more 
natural than that he should do so. Instead, therefore, of 
following him, Ely decided to remain in Berwyck. 

The little play of shadowing the other convinced the 
watcher of one thing: Yolney Biggs had no suspicion 
that he was under surveillance. 

Ely looked upon the situation as so critical that he de- 
cided upon a step which, under other circumstances, 
nothing could have induced him to take : he went to the 
office of Murphy, the lawyer with whom Biggs had held 
his interview earlier in the day. 

“I expected to meet my old friend, Mr. O’Kane,” was 
his explanation when he found himself in the presence 
of the village dignitary, “but I’m afraid I missed him.” 

“If you expected to meet him in this office it is very 
evident you have done so,” was the reply of the coun- 
selor, who scanned his visitor as though he recollected 
seeing him before. 

“No doubt of that; can you tell me where I may find 
him?” 

“Isn’t he at the hotel?” 

“No ; I left there a few minutes ago, and they told me 
he had gone to New York.” 

“Then why do you come here for him?” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


125 


“I thought he might have left some word.” 

“If he had done so, I would hardly communicate it to 
the late watchman of the Berwyck Bank, even though he 
manages to pose before the town as a hero and most peo- 
ple believe he had no criminal knowledge of the little 
affair of last night. ’ ’ 

This was in the nature of a knockdown argument, and, 
imperturbable as Kneeland Ely generally was, he was 
offended by the slur cast upon him. 

“Any one who holds the belief you have hinted at, Mr. 
Murphy, is as great a scoundrel as your clients, which 
remark has a personal application so far as you are con- 
cerned. ’ ’ 

“If you have any business with me, sir, I refuse to 
listen to it, and the sooner you leave this office the bet- 
ter. ’ ’ 

“I shall go when I ani through. A pettifogger has too 
hard work to earn his bread and butter to give any con- 
sideration to the character of his clients or the justice of 
their cases. ’ ’ 

“That remark is warranted by your own presence in 
my office. But I decline to take your case.” 

“It is easy to decline that which has not been offered. 
I have not yet got so low as to appeal to you for help.” 

“Nor I so low as to give it.” 

“Well,” added Ely, rising from his chair, “I wish you 
good luck in defending a lot of the worst criminals that 
ever afflicted this country. I have no doubt it is con- 
genial work. 

“Far better than defending one who seizes a person on 
the street that is as peaceable as Mayor Herkins himself, 
and whose character is far superior to his who accuses 
him.” 


126 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


* 

It was apparent that Lawyer Murphy and Volney Biggs 
had been discussing the proceedings of the night before, 
which resulted in the capture and incarceration of Bike 
Warner. 

“No doubt you will earn your fee, Mr. Murphy, but 
your clients have less money to waste upon defenders 
like you than they would have had I not helped to bring 

their schemes to naught.” 

. 

‘ An honest man is always assured of the means of de- 
fense, while a dishonest person needs twice as much to 
clear himself — a fact which you would do well to bear in 
mind. But I have no wish to waste any more time upon 
you. ’ * 

‘ ‘And I am sorry that I have already wasted more val- 
uable time than yours. ’ * 

“Oblige me, then, by leaving.” 

“Good-day, sir.” 

The lawyer made no response, and Kneeland Ely with- 
drew, feeling that in this interview, at least, he had 
emerged at “the little end of the horn.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“this knocks everything topsy-turvy!” 

Despite the hard sense of Kneeland Ely, and in the 
face of his strong fight against it, a dreadful suspicion 
began taking shape in his mind. 

It was in effect that Volney Biggs was either innocent 
of the strange disappearance of Detective Pixley, or, at 
the most, was no more than a particeps criminis therein. 
In other words, Frank Dixon, the suspected bookkeeper 
of the bank, was the guilty person. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


127 


This, at first thought, was so violent a supposition that 
Ely dismissed it with a feeling of self -scorn that he 
should have allowed it to enter his mind. But it came 
again and again until it secured an abiding-place in his 
brain, and he was compelled to turn it over in all its bear- 
ings. 

There were a hundred facts against it and only a few 
in its favor, but these few outweighed all the others. 

Let a man in the situation of Kneeland Ely once start 
upon a line of speculation, and the labyrinth becomes in- 
tricate, involved and endless, with the result that all is a 
hopeless tangle beyond his power to unravel. 

It is useless to follow the theories which became a ver- 
. itable torment to him ; we have only to trace actions and 
their results. 

Now that Volney Biggs had withdrawn, for the time 
at least, Ely decided to give attention to Mr. Dixon. 

He had learned from Pixley of the singular conduct of 
the young man on the night that President Dillingham 
visited Ely, when the latter was serving as watchman in 
the bank. In what manner Dixon and Biggs could be 
jointly concerned in the taking off of Pixley passed com- 
prehension, but, as has been said, the suspicion that such 
was the case approached almost conviction. 

Kneeland Ely was in sore need of sleep. He had had 
little slumber for the past forty-eight hours. It was un- 
wise to presume too far upon his endurance. He there- 
fore flung himself on his bed, and, with that fortunate 
gift which a few men possess, sank into a rest that was 
never broken until night had come. Then he awoke, and, 
descending the stairs Jo the dining-room, ate a full meal 
and became as a giant refreshed with new wine. 

His next step was to go to his old boarding-place, 


123 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


where his trunk remained, 'and don a complete change of 
clothing. He had become so well known in town because 
of his connection with the arrest of the burglars that this 
was necessary to avoid bothersome recognition. 

He did not wish to be stopped on the street every few 
minutes with congratulations and inquiries. 

Fairly outside of the house, he sauntered to the out- 
skirts, passing beyond the furthest house. There, when 
certain that no one saw him, he made a still greater 
change in his personal appearance. He fastened a pair 
of bushy whiskers in place, carried a cane and walked 
with a slight limp, depressing his shoulders as though 
weighed down by a score of years more than belonged to 
him. 

This disguise, as has already been stated, was complete 
so long as it was not subjected to scrutiny by day or the 
glare of a strong artificial light. Nothing could serve 
his purpose better when helped by the gloom on the 
street. No fear now of any one taking him for the new 
watchman that resigned his situation, as may be said, 
amid a blaze of glory. 

It was between nine and ten o’clock when Ely strolled 
by the home of Frank Dixon. He had no reason to ex- 
pect anything in the way of discovery, but it may be said 
he took the course without any special object in view. 

A dim light was burning in the upper room, which he 
had learned belonged to the young man. 

“He is out and is not likely to return for a time,” was 
the conclusion of the watcher, who continued his stroll 
toward the residence of President Dillingham, that being 
the most likely spot to find the bookkeeper in case he ’ 
wished to meet liim. 

A bright illumination in the sitting-room! of the bank- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


129 


er’s house was good evidence that Ely was correct in 
this theory. 

That being so, what good could the knowledge do him? 

But when opposite the house the front door opened, and 
President Dillingham, cane in hand, came down the 
graveled walk and turned to the right, which was toward 
the open country. 

“He wishes to take a stroll before going to bed,” was 
the conclusion of Ely, who wheeled and kept pace with 
him on the other side of the street. 

The gentleman walked slowly, so that Ely could not 
maintain himself abreast of him without attracting no- 
tice. So he gradually forged ahead ; and, as it would 
have been still more suspicious to follow him out of 
town, the limping individual crossed the street and turned 
back over his own route. 

This brought the couple face to face in the light of a 
lamp at the corner. 

Secure in his own disguise, Ely looked up in the coun- 
tenance of the banker, who merely glanced at him, with 
a neighborly nod of his head. 

Kneeland Ely was struck by the expression of anguish 
on the face of President Dillingham. He seemed ready 
to sink under the weight of some overwhelming sorrow. 
The sigh and half-suppressed groan that accompanied 
these evidences of grief added emphasis to them. 

“Poor man ! The blow hurts him more than any of his 
friends suspect. Can it be he has an inkling of the truth ? 
Does he see that the happiness, and life itself, of his fa- 
vorite niece is wrapped up in this hateful mystery? Does 
he know that when the solution conies it means disgrace 
worse than death?” 

The comprehension of the distress caused by the perfidy 


130 


THE GREAT BERWICK 


of one individual, he who had been accepted as a trusted 
friend and as the suitor of the young lady's hand, filled 
' Ely with a deep resentment toward Dixon. If he could 
have seen the way open to punish him without making 
the innocent suffer he would have eagerly done so. 

But alas ! in the affairs of this life it is the innocent 
who suffer more than the guilty. 

A block further, and Ely looked around. Mr. Dilling- 
ham, if he had set out for the country, changed his mind. 
He was standing motionless, as though undecided what 
to do. Ely slowed his pace as much as was prudent, but 
the last glance he cast backward showed the lone old 
man as immovable as the lamp-post beside him. 

Yielding to a feeling of uneasiness, Ely slipped across 
the street, intending to return and keep an eye on the 
banker. It might be he contemplated doing violence to 
himself. 

. » 

But the scrutiny already given to Mr. Dillingham pre- 
vented Ely noting, until he started across the street, that 
another person was doing what he had in view. A man 
was coming from the direction of the banker’s residence, 
and walking so slowly that it was clear that his interest 
was centered in the old gentleman. 

Had Ely observed him before starting, he would have 
kept on his own side, but, having made the move, he 
pushed on. Thus he had to walk but a short way when 
he met the second individual. 

It was not beneath the glare of the lamplight, as in the 
former instance, but aid like that was not needed for Ely 
to recognize the newcomer on the scene as Frank Dixon, 
the bookkeeper of the bank. It was he who was keeping 
his chief under surveillance. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


131 


“ And no wonder, ’’.was the thought of Ely; “a guilty 
conscience turns shadows into armed men.” 

Dixon hardly bestowed a glance upon the limping man 
with the cane, but peered through the gloom at the dim- 
ly outlined figure in the distance. 

It was easy for Ely to keep track of the movements of 
the younger, who came to a pause a little further on, 
evidently afraid of being noticed if he advanced closer. 

That was the tableau — the old man, silent, thoughtful, 
motionless, beneath the glare of the lamp ; the younger, 
still as a statue in the gloom, dimly seeing, and yet in- 
tently watching, the other. 

Kneeland added himself to the scene by halting also, 
but at such a distance that he would not have been able 
to locate Dixon had he not done so before the space be- 
tween them became so great. 

This distribution of characters brought about another 
condition : Ely had stopped almost in front of the resi- 
dence of Mr. Dillingham, so that by shifting his gaze be 
was given a good view of that building. 

The light was still burning in the reception-room, and 
in the gloom of the piazza he made out the figure of a 
young lady, whose interest doubtless centered in the two 
persons that had gone out of the house only a few min- 
utes before. 

The interpretation of the whole scene could not have 
been plainer. 

The banker, for some reason, had left his home at a 
later hour than usual. It might have been for a simple 
stroll, and it might mean much more. 

His niece and her lover were startled by his action, and 
the latter had set out to note the movements of the elder. 

That was what he was engaged in doing, while she, in 


132 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


her anxiety, could not remain inside the house until the 
return of the watcher. 

There was a flicker under the distant lamp. The figure 
of the banker was revealed for a moment, and then lost 
to sight again in the shadows. He had resumed his walk, 
but instead of going out in the country was returning 
home. 

Hardly had he started, when Dixon imitated him. Ely 
was only a second or two later in doing the same, so that 
Banker Dillingham, at the further end of the line, con- 
trolled the whole machinery. 

A brief walk brought the young man opposite the 
house which he had left a brief while before. He did not 
cross and re-enter, as Ely expected him to do, but emit- 
ted a vigorous cough. 

Immediately the door was opened, and Miss Crosslands 
passed out of sight. She understood the signal to mean 
that her uncle was coming back, and she and her lover 
separated for the night. 

Ely did not deem it wise to hasten his pace. He had 
acted his part so well that no suspicion was directed to- 
ward him. Thus it was that he had not gone far when 
Dixon passed him at .a brisk gait. 

Ely put forth a little more energy, but the young man 
drew away from him so rapidly that he quickly disap- 
peared. 

“There’s no need of my hurrying, for he is going home 
and to bed. Nevertheless, I will give his house a fare- 
well glance.” 

At the moment of turning the corner Ely observed 
that the light in the room of the bookkeeper was burning 
brightly— proof that he had returned and was doubtless 
preparing to retire. Dropping back to his slow pace, the 


BANK BURGLARY. 


133 

late watchman moved along the street so as to pass in 
front of the building, as he had done the night before. 

Kneeland Ely was generally on the alert, and it was 
fortunate that he was so in this instance. It was his in- 
tention to halt when opposite the little cottage and wait 
until the light in the upper story was extinguished. 

But, to his astonishment, he discovered that a third 
party was ahead of him. Within the shadow of the door 
that had sheltered Detective Fagan was a man, evidently 
with his attention fixed upon the home of Dixon. 

He was so deep in the shadow that Ely barely distin- 
guished him, his notice having been attracted by a slight 
noise caused by a change of posture. Though the discov- 
ery was unexpected, Ely kept up his slow, regular pace, 
apparently looking straight ahead and noting nothing to 
the right or left. 

But for the faint noise referred to he would have 
known nothing of the eavesdropper’s presence, which 
doubtless had a significance of its own. 

“Well,” muttered Ely, after reaching a safe distance, 
“matters are becoming more mixed than ever. Who 
can that fellow be, and what is his business there?” 

The lame man made as if to turn the other corner, do- 
ing so for a few paces and immediately coming far 
enough back to see down the street he had just left. 

At that moment the bright light in Dixon’s room went 
out and all became darkness. The stillness of the de- 
serted street enabled Ely to hear the rapid footfalls of 
the watcher across the way, beginning at the very mo- 
ment succeeding the extinguishment of the light. 

Ely stood a few seconds in doubt, supposing the stran- 
ger was coming toward him ; but the figure, as shown by 
lamplight, was walking fast in the opposite direction. 


134 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“He must not get away from me,” was the decision of 
the watcher, who set out after him at a sharper pace than 
he had shown that evening. 

The instant the one ahead vanished around the first 
corner the pursuer’s gait rose still higher, until it ap- 
proached a trot. He was sure he would be upon the 
heels of the other when he, too, turned the corner. 

A disappointment, however, awaited him. Whether 
or not the .man feared pursuit cannot be told, but he 
must have broken into a run so much superior to the 
pace of Ely that, instead of the latter drawing up near 
him, the fugitive, as he may be called, was nowhere in 
sight. 

Angry with himself at the trick, Ely listened intently, 
hoping to catch the sound of the other’s footfalls. But 
had he been miles out in the country the silence could 
not have been more profound than it was at that moment 
in that portion of the town of Berwyck. 

“To-night’s work is a failure,” was the disgusted con- 
clusion of Ely; “I will send to New York for half a 
dozen amateur detectives and let them try their hand. 
They surely can’t do any worse than I have.” 

In his self-reproach Kneeland Ely did injustice to 
himself. 

It was not yet midnight, but it seemed useless for him 
to remain abroad any longer. Dixon, the man whom he 
had set out to watch, had retired and would not be seen 
again until the morrow, when the hour came to resume 
his duties at the bank. 

The baffled Ely dropped back to his usual gait, but, 
with characteristic caution, maintained his halt gait. 

The house of President Dillingham was wrapped in 
profound darkness. No one was astir, though Kneeland 


135 


BANK BURGLARY. 

Ely was right in believing that two persons at least be- 
neath that roof would not close their eyes until far into 
the hours of the night, and even thep sleep would be fe- 
verish, fitful and tormented by the most frightful fears, 
misgivings and dreams that ever come to youth or age. 

To avoid unpleasant complications, Ely slipped off his 
false beard and showed it into his pocket before reaching 
the hotel. He managed also to recover from his lame- 
ness and entered looking very much, except as to attire, 
as he looked upon his arrival in Berwyck. 

It was still comparatively early for him, and, after his 
rest during the afternoon, he felt no disposition to sleep. 
Nevertheless, he went to his room, paying little attention 
to the few loungers below stairs, and without a glance at 
the register of the hotel. 

Had he scanned the written page of that book he would 
have learned something of importance. 

Twenty-four hours and more had now gone by since 
the disappearance of Detective Pixley, and his friend 
had not picked up the first clew to his fate. 

He not only knew absolutely nothing, but was more 
perplexed than ever. He felt like roaming over the town 
the night through, and would have done so could he have 
felt the least assurance of accomplishing anything by 
such action. 

“Pix is dead,” was his disheartening conclusion, “and 
he particulars of his taking off may never be known.” 

As a partial relief from his mental distress, he brought 
forth the papers which the detective had obtained when 
he made his call at the house of President Dillingham. 
It will be remembered that they contained the handwrit- 
ing not only of himself but of his bookkeeper. With the 
papers also was the slip that had been shoved under the 


136 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


door of the bank on the night that Ely and Pixley were 
doing watch within. 

Ely had given these a superficial examination when 
his friend first placed them before him, with the idea of 
instituting a comparison. As a relief from his worriment 
he now concentrated his faculties into a minute and 
studied comparison of the penmanship. 

It was inevitable that .in the former instance he and 
Pixley, approaching the task with a preconceived theory, 
reached, as a result, the confirmation of that theory. The 
effect of this conclusion was upon Ely when he repeated 
the task. 

But suddenly he uttered a suppressed exclamation. A 
discovery came with a power that stunned him. 

At first it was a suspicion only, but it broke like a 
thunderclap from the sunlit sky, and held him breathless 
and unable for a time to go on with his task. He sprang 
to his feet and paced the floor. Then he lighted another 
cigar and puffed like a steam engine. 

When he had partly composed himself he resumed his 
seat and spread out the papers once more on the stand 
before him, underneath the gaslight. 

“By heavens! it’s TRUE!” he exclaimed, a minute 
later, leaping again to his feet and pacing the room like 
a caged lion ; “this knocks everything topsy-turvy !” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ft 

“ HERE HE IS !” 

A THIRD time Kneeland Ely sat down to the little table 
in his room. He had now acquired mastery over himself 


BANK BURGLARY. 


137 


and was the same cool, collected individual that followed 
so rigorously the trail of the fleeing Bike Warner. 

He sat with his shoulder to the light, and, leaning back 
in his chair, scrutinized the papers for fully ten minutes, 
his whole mental strength concentrated upon and ab- 
sorbed in the effort. 

* » 

When he was through he carefully folded and placed 
them in an inner pocket, where he meant to guard them 
with his life. 

“ The secret is solved,” was his conclusion, elevating 
his feet on the window-sill and puffing his cigar with 
more deliberation. “Strange that nothing like that ever 
came to Pix or me ; I see it all now. ” 

One of the facts connected with a task like that of 
Kneeland Ely’s has already been referred to. A detective 
often sets out with a theory to which he attempts to fit 
the facts as they afterward come to life. The odd thing 
about this process is that it is generally quite easy to 
make these facts dovetail to perfection. In the end the 
structure seems to be complete. 

Then comes the demolishment of the superstructure; 
the foundation was wrong, and everything built upon it 
topples over with one grand crash. 

The true foundation now assumes shape, and not a flaw 
shows in the building erected thereon. 

Looking back over the events of the past few days, 
Kneeland Ely saw their perfect conformity to the astound- 
ing discovery he had just made. None of the slight diffi- 
culties which confronted him before now showed them- 
selves ; everything was smooth, clean, clear, complete. 

It was a fine exploit, a great triumph, but his heart 
sank as he realized that all this had not the remotest 
bearing upon the fate of his missing friend. 


138 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


That awful problem remained unsolved. The wall 
which interposed itself across his path was as insur- 
mountable as ever. 

Sh! 

Surely that was a noise in the room adjoining — the one 
which had been occupied by Pixley Fagan two nights be- 
fore. 

Ely’s heart gave a quick throb of hope at the thought 
that his friend had returned. He was on the point of 
leaping to his feet and dashing into the apartment, ready 
in his delight to fall upon his neck and embrace him. 

But his habit of caution restrained him. Better to 
wait until all dpubt on the question was removed. 

Everything remained quiet for a brief while. Pixley 
softly arose and again pressed his ear against, the sepa- 
rating wall. 

Yes ; some one was in the other room, moving softly 
about — proof that it was not the rightful occupant, for 
there could be no call for such precaution on his part. 

As if his wits had been preternaturally sharpened by 
his late mental exploit, Kneeland Ely jumped to the con- 
clusion — 

“It’s Volney Biggs ! It was he who was watching the 
house of Frank Dixon ; he has come back to the hotel 
and has sneaked into Pix’s room. It strikes me that it is 
about time I took part in this business.” 

He held his revolver in a firm grasp as he noiselessly 
opened his own door and stepped into the hallway. The 
gleam shining through the crevices beneath the other 
door showed that the intruder was availing himself of 
the benefit of gaslight. 

Gently seizing the door-knob, Ely tried it. As lie sus- 


139 


BANK BURGLARY. 

pected, it was not locked. Then he shoved the’ door in- 
ward, so quickly that it gave out no noise. 

The man was standing just then with his back toward 
the entrance, examining some papers that he had taken 
from the valise on the floor, and which had been opened 
by means of one of his false keys. 

“ Ahem /” 

Ely cleared his throat as an announcement that he had 
arrived. The intruder started with the nervous move- 
ment natural to a person when detected doing something 
wrong. He wheeled about and confronted the visitor, 
who instantly demonstrated that he was master of the 
situation. 

For the extended arm of Kneeland Ely held his revol- 
ver at a dead level with the muzzle aimed straight at the 
other’s face. The finger needed but to press a little harder 
on the trigger to send home the pellet of lead. 

“The first movement to draw and I fire !” 

The words were spoken in a low voice, but were as dis- 
tinct as if shouted through a trumpet. The pose of the 
conqueror was sufficient without the gleam of his keen 
eye to show his deadly earnestness. 

Standing thus, Ely reached back with his left hand 
and reclosed the door. The two were now alone in the 
room. 

There was no call to order his captive to throw up his 
hands; that was unnecessary under the circumstances. 
He was as helpless as if bound with chains, and knew 
that the first movement toward drawing a weapon would 
be fatal to him. 

“Volney Biggs, alias John O’Kane, or, more properly, 
Thomas R. Belden, you are my prisoner,” said Kneeland 
Ely. 


140 


THE GREAT BERWICK 


It was impossible for any one to be caught more fairly 
than was the individual thus addressed. Anticipating 
nothing of the kind, the similar weapon which he carried 
still reposed in his hip pocket. In his start he dropped 
the paper in his hand to the floor, and, staring open- 
mouthed at Ely, faltered : 

“Wha-a-at do you want?” 

“Sit down.” 

“Wlia-a-t for?” 

“Because I order you. Sit down!” 

He was near the window, and close enough to a chair 
to obey without shifting his position. He did as com- 
manded, dropping into the seat almost in a state of col- 
lapse. Sitting thus, he still confronted the leveled weapon, 
which followed his motion so that the muzzle held rela- 
tively the same position as before. 

“Now, Yolney, let’s understand each other,” continued 
Ely, in the same off-hand manner he had shown from the 
first. “You can see that I have the drop on you. Do 
as you are told and you won’t be hurt ; try to draw, and 
I pull the trigger. You know what that means.” 

The villain rapidly regained his self-possession. 

“I don’t deny what you say, but what’s the use of 
keeping that thing pointed like that? It might go off 
accidentally. ’ ’ 

“I’m too used to it to have any accidents.” 

“But it isn’t necessary; you can keep the drop without 
having it all the time leveled like that. It makes me 
nervous. ’ ’ 

“I’ll compromise,” said Ely, taking a step forward and 
sitting down, but doing so without removing his gaze 
from the face of the other. 

At the same moment he lowered his hand so that it 
rested on his knee. The position was less constrained, 
and could be held for a long time without tiring his arm. 
Nevertheless, the weapon was so placed that any move- 
ment on the part of the prisoner could be instantly antici- 
pated. 

‘ Yolney, do you know me?” asked Ely, with a smile 
that displayed his fine white teeth. 


BANK BURGLARY 


141 


The other, who had been looking intently in his face, 
flushed and uttered a savage imprecation. 

“That answers my question ; enough said. It signifies 
that we understand each other.” 

“I don’t see what you can do with a man who gets into 
a wrong room by mistake,” remarked Biggs, with a weak 
attempt at facetiousness. 

“Not much, that is true, and if it was all I had I 
wouldn’t bother you ; but there’s that little matter of 
last December with the bank at Phoenixville, and the 
affair of those forged notes in Philadelphia by which you 
and your friends netted a handsome sum, to say nothing 
of the train robbery in Arkansas last autumn, when the 
express messenger lost his life. You haven’t forgotten 
those, Yolney, I am sure.” 

“What are they to you? What proof have you that I 
had anything to do with them?” 

“Enough to produce a couple of warrants for your ar- 
rest. Those warrants are in my pocket. Phoenixville 
happens to be in this State, so I won’t have to wait for 
requisition papers.” 

It was a discouraging piece of information to Mr. 
Biggs, and, knowing the man before him, he ceased his 
attempts at bluffing. 

“Well, Len, you’ve got me dead to rights this time,” 
he said, settling sullenly back in his chair. “ What are 
you going to do about it?” 

“That depends upon you. ’ ’ 

This was an altogether surprising reply. Biggs accepted 
it as signifying that the other, like too many persons, was 
open to a proposition. The chance was eagerly seized. 

“Now you are talking sense. You’ll find I’ll act on 
the square, old fellow. How much will it cost me?” 

“What can you pay?” 

“How does five thousand strike you?” 

“You can afford to do better.” 

“Don’t be too rough on a poor orphan,” said Biggs, 
who, seeing a prospect of release from an awkward di- 
lemma, was disposed to be jocular; “you know I am 
poor but honest.” 


142 


THE GREAT BERWYC’K 


"You won’t feel ten thousand.” 

Biggs whistled softly and expanded his eyes. 

"That’s easily earned; but all right, it’s ago, if you 
say so. ’ ’ 

T haven’t said so,” remarked Ely. 

The couple never once removed their eyes from each 
other’s faces while talking. The remark of Kneeland Ely 
awakened a sudden distrust on the part of his captive. 

“It isn’t fair to treat a fellow like that, Len ; I would 
be square with you if our positions were different. ’ ’ 

"Volney,” said the other, in the same low, business- 
like voice, which could hardly have been heard in the 
next room, "I won’t let you off for five, nor for ten, nor 
for one hundred thousand dollars. I have had plenty of 
such chances before to-night and haven’t taken any of 
them yet.” 

"What did you mean, then, by saying what you did?” 
demanded the scowling ruffian, who would have 'given 
the sum named for the chance of leaping at the throat of 
Kneeland Ely. 

"I mean what I said. I won’t compound a felony in 
the way you have in mind, but I will, for the first time 
in my life, do it, provided you pay me in another way.” 

"I don’t understand you.” 

"Produce Pixley Fagan, well and alive, and you will 
be free from any molestation from me for any and every- 
thing done previous to this night. We’ll wipe it off the 
slate and begin anew to-morrow.” 

Kneeland Ely bent all his faculties to a study of the 
miscreant’s countenance while repeating these words. 

He knew his offer would be accepted, but it was by no 
means certain that Volney Biggs would be able to carry 
out his part of the agreement. He could lose nothing 
and would have a chance of gaining everything by mak- 
ing the required pledge. 

The all-important question remained as to Biggs’s abil- 
ity to do anything of the nature required. 

It was not impossible that he knew nothing of the miss- 
ing officer. Ely, however, believed that he did. At any 
rate, he was ready to act upon that supposed fact. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


143 


An indescribable expression passed over the face of the 
cunning villain. Kneeland Ely had seen nothing of the 
kind in all his experience. He could not fathom its 
meaning, nor did he attempt to do so. 

“What makes you fancy I know anything of your 
friend, Pixley Fagan?” 

“I have only a suspicion; if you don’t, why, the mat- 
ter is ended, and I’ll march you down to the lock-up and 
let you join Paff and Hake and Bike. ’ ’ 

“I haven’t denied that I have the knowledge you’re 
after, Len,” was the significant remark of the prisoner. 

“Understand that my proposition is that you produce 
Pix well and unharmed— nothing less than that will an- 
swer. ’ * 

“I’ll agree he shall be alive, but suppose you leave out 
the condition of being ‘unharmed.’ 

The significance of this remark sent a chill through the 
frame of Kneeland Ely, for it clearly implied that De- 
tective Fagan had suffered grievous injury. Indeed, Ely 
felt he ought to have suspected that, for the brave fellow 
would have been heard from before had he riot been dis- 
abled through some attack. 

“Well, say the injury is not fatal ; that will answer.” 

“I can agree to that proposition, but you wouldn’t ex- 
pect me to bring him here V ’ 

“No ; ymi are to take me to him.” 

“If I do that, you pledge me that it is a stand-off be- 
tween us?” 

“I give you my pledge, which I have never broken.” 

“Let that drop ; you and I haven’t much to brag of in 
that line.” 

“So far as you are concerned you are correct. We 
understand the terms of the bargain. ” 

“But I have got to trust you, Len.” 

“Show me any way of getting around that phase and 
possibly I will adopt it.” 

“How far will you trust me ?” 

“Not out of my sight.” 

“When do you want to be taken to him?” 

“This night; will you do it?” 


144 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“Yes; but, see here, I don’t intend to walk downstairs 
at the point of that gun. ’ ’ 

“You needn’t; I will put it in my coat pocket, but 
keep fast to it, so that if you try any trick I can fire 
through the coat with certain aim. 

“And what about my gun?” 

“You may keep it. Being my guide, you will walk 
ahead. If you can use it any quicker than I you are 
welcome to do so. Are the conditions accepted?” 

“They are, for you leave me no choice.” 

“Now that that contract is made. I would like to ask 
a question or two.” 

“I am listening. ” 

“You were in this affair with Higgens, Hoover and 
Warner?” 

Volney Biggs bowed his head, with a smile of pride in 
the confession. 

“I was ‘ in ’ it, too, with both feet, but what the mis- 
chief did you do? I knew you were in town, for I saw 
you on Main Street, just at dusk yesterday afternoon, but 
Higgens and Hoover were the only ones inside the bank, 
and Warner was the only other one of your friends in 
the neighborhood. I ask again, what it was you did in 
the way of help?” 

The smile on the face of Volney Biggs assumed a sin- 
ister meaning as he uttered the reply : 

“The bargain that you and I have just made is sufficient 
answer to that question.” 

“ I might have known it,” said Ely, trying to conceal 
the shudder that passed over him. 

“You expected me to show up, and I didn’t; you ex- 
pected Pix to be on hand, but he wasn’t. Put this and 
that together, and you have the information you seek. ’ ’ 

Kneeland Ely nodded his head. Nothing could be 
plainer than that. 

“Rather lucky for me,” added Biggs, “for they can’t 
bring anything against me, so far as this little town is 
concerned.” 

“You are right, but the documents in my possession 
render that unnecessary ; I rely upon them . ’ ’ 


BANK BURGLARY. 


145 


“And they are to be laid away, from this night forth?” 

“So far as I am concerned, yes, provided you perform 
your part of the contract. Let me ask, for our guidance, 
whether this excursion of ours will occupy much time?” 

Biggs hesitated a moment. 

“I am not sure as to that; it depends.” 

“A half-hour — an hour— two hours?” 

The prisoner grinned knowingly. He did not mean to 
give away any advantage he now possessed. 

“Say a half-hour, if we walk briskly.” 

“There’s no reason why we should not; it is so late 
that few people are on the street, and there will be noth- 
ing in our appearance to attract attention, unless you 
make a break. ’ ’ 

“Having implicit faith in your honor, nothing will 
induce me to try anything of that sort. I am at your 
service,' but, before starting, let’s make sure everything 
is understood between us : I am to take you to where 
Pixley Fagan is waiting to see you or some friend?” 

“Yes.” 

“And then I depart, and henceforth we are quits, so 
far as events up to this evening are concerned?” 

“Yes, if Pixley Fagan is found alive and not mortally 
hurt.” 

“Enough said; I will take you to him — ” 

“There’s no need of that. Here he is !” 

It was Pixley Fagan who uttered these words, as he 
strode into the room where the two men sat. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“I’VE STAYED TOO LONG.” 

After bidding good-day to Kneeland Ely, late in the 
afternoon preceding the last attempt upon the Berwyck 
Bank. Detective Fagan strolled off in the direction of the 
hotel. 

It will be remembered that a full understanding was 


146 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


had between the two friends as to the respective parts 
they were to play in the events that were then only a few 
hours distant. 

It was growing dusk when Fagan walked into the pub- 
lic room of the hotel. While passing through the door 
he encountered a man coming out whom he recognized 
as Yolney Biggs. Neither showed a sign of knowing the 
other, and the officer was confident that Biggs did not 
identify him. 

In the most natural manner Fagan turned about and 
watched the criminal. He crossed the street and turned 
to the left. In order to keep in sight the officer did the 
same, staying far enough to the rear to prevent his er- 
rand being suspected in case the other should look around 
or retrace his steps. 

Biggs’s course convinced his follower that he did not 
know the detective was shadowing him. 

The one in advance continued onward, turning several 
corners until he speedily reached the ' outskirts of the 
small town. 

This fact added to the delicacy of the work Fagan had 
taken upon himself, for both were soon beyond the line 
of promenade frequented by the townspeople. 

Believing he was on the eve of an important discovery, 
the pursuer held back until his man hovered on the line 
of invisibility, his shadowy figure dimly seen as it moved 
forward at a moderate walk. 

Fully a hundred yards from the highway, among a 
clump of trees, the detective fancied he saw the outlines 
of a house. He had never been in that vicinity before, 
but like a flash he associated the building with the busi- 
ness of the man whom he was following. 

He was right. Biggs turned sharply to the right, and 
was observed more distinctly as he walked along what 
seemed to be the remains of a path and disappeared in 
the gloom of the trees. 

“That old building is the headquarters of the burglars,” 
was the conclusion of the detective. “I wish Ely, as he 
calls himself, was with me, but as it is I will undertake 
a little investigation of my own.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


147 


Nothing would have been more imprudent than to fol- 
low directly in the footsteps of Yolney Biggs. He and 
his friends were sure to keep a lookout for prowlers, and 
would discover Fagan the moment he made a change of 
direction. 

Accordingly, the detective walked past the place, 
hardly turning his head, when opposite, though it need 
not be said he used his eyes to the utmost. 

It was as he supposed. A low, broad stone building 
stood in the grove, a structure that had probably been 
erected before any house in the present town of Ber- 
wyck. It was unoccupied, except by the “squatters” that 
had taken possession while planning the robbery of the 
bank. 

A short distance to the rear of the building wound a 
brook that was lined with trees. The stream was several 
feet below the level of the surrounding land, and, cross- 
ing the road, was crossed in turned by Fagan, after pass- 
ing further along the highway. 

A little way in this direction brought the wooded hol- 
low between him and the old house, thus affording the 
screen necessary in carrying out the plan he had formed. 

Fagan vaulted over the fence, hurried along the edge 
of the wood, and in a few minutes placed himself behind 
the structure that had assumed so much interest for him. 

He found that between it and the nearest point of the 
hollow was an open space of a hundred feet in extent. 
This grass-grown plot had to be crossed in order to reach 
the building itself. 

The nearer view of the old stone building left no doubt 
of its great age. It had probably been deserted for a 
score of years, and no doubt was in a dilapidated condi- 
tion. The surrounding trees were so scattered that, de- 
spite their exuberant vegetation at that season of the 
year, the structure was seen distinctly. 

Nothing, however, could be effected without a closer 
view. From where the detective stood not a sign of life 
was observable. All the windows were dark, and the 
stillness of the tomb rested on the scene. 


148 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


But Pixley Fagan was not the man to hesitate when 
once he had decided upon his course of action. 

With his head low, like an Indian scout, he ran rapidly 
and lightly across the open space and entered the grove 
immediately surrounding the old house. 

Then he began what may be called his fine work. 

With the utmost care he made a circuit of the build- 
ing, coming back to the point from which he set out. 
The shadows gave him good protection, for the night had 
advanced while he was thus employed, and the bright 
moon would not show itself until later in the evening. 

Not the first evidence of life was observed during his 
circumnavigation of the mysterious building. That one 
man at least was inside he was certain. 

While still debating upon the right course to take he 
heard the sound of voices. 

Fagan stealthily shifted his position in the direction 
whence came the murmur, and saw three men approach- 
ing from the highway over the same course that had been 
followed by Volney Biggs a short time before. 

There could be no mistake as to their identity ; they 
were Paff Higgens, Hake Hoover and Bike Warner. In- 
asmuch as Biggs had preceded them, the whole party 
doubtless meant to hold a council of war on the eve, as 
may be said, of battle. 

They entered the broad, tumble-down front door with- 
out hindrance, and the muffled words came from within, 
though nothing that was said could be identified. 

Then took place a singular occurrence. A light flashed 
to view in the large middle room on the lower floor. It 
need hardly be said that the windows were without cur- 
tains, and most of the panes were gone. There were two 
windows opening on the right and the same number on 
the left. On one of the other sides of the room a door 
communicated with the kitchen, and on the remaining 
side with the broad hall leading to the front door. 

Paff Higgens found some sort of seat at one of the win- 
dows on the left, and Hake Hoover did the same on the 
right. This, it will be seen, commanded every possible 
view of*the outside, and shut off any attempt on the part 


BANK BURGLARY. 


149 


of Fagan playing the eavesdropper by slipping forward 
and crouching under one of the windows. 

Evidently the cautious criminals had taken these posi- 
tions to make sure that no one should steal' a march upon 
them. . Warner and Biggs kept away from the windows 
and nearer the middle of the room, since there was no 
need of their playing the sentinel. 

Only two avenues remained to the detective, that of 
entering the building from the rear or the front. 

The bravest man might well shrink from either attempt, 
for it was virtually entering the lion’s den, with every 
chance on the side of the lion. But Pixley Fagan decided 
to take the risk. 

Favored by the gloom among the trees, he easily passed 
beyond sight of the watchman at the windows, and ap- 
proached the kitchen part of the building. An old door, 
with a single stone step, opened into this, the interior of 
the kitchen being in utter darkness. 

A close approach revealed the old form of entrance. 
Instead of the modern latch or lock, a string dangled 
through an aperture that had probably been bored a cent- 
ury before. As in the days of our forefathers, a twitch 
of the latchstring opened the way to the interior of the 
building, while the door was locked by drawing in the 
string. 

Fagan softly pulled the leathern thong and the latch 
was lifted. When he pushed against the door, however, 
there was no yielding. He tried it until convinced it was 
fastened on the inside by some other means. 

Hobson’s choice remained ; he must enter by the front, 
or leave without accomplishing anything. 

With a temerity approaching foolhardiness, Detective 
Fagan set about his perilous task. 

His action was almost a crime, inasmuch as there was 
no necessity for any such frightful personal risk as he 
now took upon himself. 

The “programme” for the evening had been made out. 
It was certain that these four men would try to rob the 
Bervvyck Bank before the rising of the morrow’s sun. 
The measures intended to defeat them had been agreed 


150 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


upon ; it was not necessary to know more, to say nothing 
of the great risk Fagan ran of upsetting everything by 
his rashness. 

All the same, however, he set about the task with hard- 
ly a minute’s hesitation. 

Two broad, flat stones served as the steps to the front 
entrance. Here the massive door was ordinarily opened 
and shut by the old-fashioned iron latch, below which, on 
the inside, were the huge bolts and cross-pieces by which 
the entrance was rendered almost as secure as the solid 
walls themselves. 

The criminals within might well deem it unnecessary 
to lock the main or outer door. Surely no one would at- 
tempt to enter by that means, while any other approach 
would be detected at once. The rear being secured, 
they might well believe that anything they said was safe 
against eavesdroppers. 

Detective Fagan held himself ready to flee on the mo- 
ment it should become necessary. If he could not avoid 
alarming those within, he could dash down the weedy 
walk to the highway, and thence in the direction of the 
town. The plotters would hardly dare follow him, and 
if they did, he was confident of surpassing their best 
efforts. 

With the utmost care he raised the latch and held it 
suspended under the pressure of his thumb. So far as he 
could tell, not the slightest noise was produced. Then he 
shoved the door inward. It moved backward as if the 
hinges had been newly oiled. The darkness of the wide 
hall yawned before him, while a yellow line of light 
along the floor located the closed door leading to the large 
room where the four men were seated. 

He not only heard them laugh and speak, but distin- 
guished several words that were uttered. It looked as if 
fate was favoring the officer, who now closed the door 
with the utmost care behind him. This he was able to 
do with the same noiselessness as he had opened it. 

Although he was in a place he had never before seen, 
and with the impenetrable darkness on every hand, he 


BANK BURGLARY. 


151 


had a general idea of his surroundings and of the right 
thing to do. 

It must not be supposed that Pixley Fagan did not 
comprehend the risk he was running by his daring act. 
Sooner or later the four men would complete their coun- 
cil and leave the building, to do which they must come 
through the hall along which he was advancing like a 
cat. If they made this move suddenly they would be 
upon him before he could escape. In a conflict with four 
such desperate men he could have no earthly show. If 
he should attempt to run he would become the target for 
all their revolvers before he could reach the highway. 

But Fagan indulged in some exceedingly fine theoriz- 
ing. 

Hours must pass before a move was made against the 
bank. Nothing was more likely than that the quartette 
meant to stay where they were until eleven o’clock, if 
not later. 

If for any reason they changed their minds, or had al- 
ready formed a different intention, the listener would be 
able to gain ample notice of it from their conversation. 

This was the theory that sustained him while advanc- 
ing with the caution of one who feels he carries his life 
in his haild. 

When almost close enough to touch the inner door the 
detective stopped. He had gone so near that every word 
uttered was intelligible. He even withdrew a step or two 
toward the entrance. 

As may be supposed, the conversation was extremely 
interesting to the man who had run all this risk to over- 
hear it. 

It was Paff Higgens who said : 

“It doesn’t look as if a single person in town suspects 
us. I’ve kept my eyes open ever since we’ve been here 
and seen nothing. ’ ’ 

“Why should you?” asked Hake Hoover, “when it 
isn’t to be seen? This is the finest job we’ve had in a long 
time. I was in the bank to-day and took a view of the 
safe.” 

“What sort is it?” asked Warner. 


152 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“The old-fashioned kind; it’s as easy to open as a 
watermelon. ’ ’ 

“Do you ’spose there’s much in there?” 

“Enough to pay us, if we get our hands on it.” 

“It was lucky we struck this town,” remarked Hig- 
gens; “nothing could suit better, or half as well.” 

“I came up last week, you know,” observed Volney 
Biggs, “and looked around. It took some time to learn 
what I wanted, but I got it at last. Whom do you sup- 
pose this old hulk belongs to?” 

The others could not form a guess. 

“That old watchman at the bank. I met him the other 
day, when he was out to look at it, and got him inter- 
ested by pretending I thought of buying it. He showed 
me all through, and is anxious to sell. He said it was 
built by his great-grandfather before the Revolution, and 
nobody has lived in it for twenty-five years. He can’t 
rent it, and no person will buy it at any price.” 

“ You managed to get the provisions in here without 
any one seeing you, Biggs?” 

“That was easy after I learned all the ins and outs of 
the old building. I could stroll out this way after dark 
and leave a little of the stuff at a time. Besides, this 
crowd stands more in need of drinkables than of eata- 
bles. That made less trouble, you see. ’ ’ 

“Especially when you carried most of the drinkables 
inside ,” was the facetious observation of Bike Warner. 

“Of course they were carried inside, all of them, and I 
notice you have done your part in placing yourself out- 
side of the same.” 

“We can all plead guilty to that,” was the comment of 
Bike Warner. 

“Now,” said Higgens, “it is understood that as soon as 
the affair is over we all come back here and stay for sev- 
eral days. ’ ’ 

' ‘You think that is the best plan?” 

“By long odds; the news will be telegraphed to-mor- 
row to New York and other points, and the detectives 
will be after us hot-footed. They will watch the railway 


BANK BURGLARY. 


153 


stations, scour the country and hunt everywhere except 
right here in this old .building in this old town. *’ 

“The safest place after cracking a safe,” philosophized 
Bike Warner, “is in the house next door.” 

“We will keep out of sight; that is, all except Biggs, 
who mustn’t be too previous with himself, and then when 
the way is clear steal off one by one and come together, 
as we get the chance, at the Hole in the Wall.” 

Detective Fagan, who did not lose a word of this edi- 
fying conversation, felt he was being repaid for his risk. 

“Volney is the master of ceremonies,” added Hake 
Hoover, “and is used to the business, so he need not make 
any mistake. ’ ’ 

“Suppose there’s a slip to-night?” 

“ There won't be. That watchman is the stupidest dolt 
I ever met; we won’t have any trouble with him, and 
that’s all we need fear.” 

“Shall we drink to the success of the scheme?” asked 
Warner. 

“No,” was the prompt response of Higgens, who 
seemed to be the leader in the enterprise. “We must 
have no muddled brains to-night. You’ve got to stand 
watch, and mustn’t see double.” 

“But after the thing is over and we are here, what 
then?” 

“Then will be time enough to drink to the success of 
what we have done, not of what is left to do.” 

“And we are to stay here until it’s time to move?” 

“That’s the idea.” 

At that moment the listening detective fancied he 
heard the door leading into the kitchen opened. The 
noise was slight, but it disturbed him. He stood a few 
seconds, hesitating whether to withdraw or stay. He 
ought to have gone, for surely he had learned sufficient, 
but the words of the party proved they intended to wait 
several hours, and, unfortunately, he decided to listen a 
little longer. 

“It’s tedious business,” said Bike Warner. 

“Do you know of anything that pays better?” was the 


154 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


pert inquiry of Higgens. “You ought to understand that 
one of the virtues of our profession is patience.” 

Just then Detective Fagan heard a faint disturbance at 
the front door behind him. He turned his head, but of 
course could see nothing in the gloom, nor did he detect 
any additional sound. 

“I’ve stayed too long,” was his conclusion, as he moved 
with less care than before along the hall. 

Seizing the latch, he drew smartly backward. The door 
did not respond. He tried harder than before, but it did 
not yield the fraction of an inch. 

Convinced of treachery, he turned to ascend the stairs 
which the sense of feeling had apprised him ran up one 
side of the hall ; but before he could reach them, the in- 
ner door was drawn inward and a stream of light swept 
over him. 

In the blinding glare he saw himself confronted by 
three men, each with a leveled weapon, and he recog- 
nized the gruff command of Paff Higgens : 

“ Hands up /” 

Even while the words were uttered the outer door also 
opened behind him, and Yolney Biggs approached from 
the rear. 

Detective Fagan was fairly caught, and had no choice 
but obey. He did so with that promptness which he al- 
ways demanded from members of the criminal profes- 
sion when he held them at a similar disadvantage. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

“HE MET HIS WATERLOO.” 

By what means the four criminals discovered the pres- 
ence of the detective in the hall outside was never ascer- 
tained. Probably he made some slight noise that be- 
trayed him, for, as we have shown, the descent upon the 
startled officer was so overwhelming, surrounded, as it 
may be said he was, that he had no choice but to submit 
as a prisoner. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


155 


Detective Fagan knew how to bow gracefully to the 
inevitable. He remained with his hands reaching to- 
ward the stars, until Paff Higgens (the others holding 
their weapons ready) stepped forward and disarmed him. 

“I suppose I can drop my hands now?” was the inquir- 
ing remark of the prisoner. 

“Not yet; wait till I’m through.” 

Having satisfied himself that the captive had no more 
weapons about him, the captor told him to lower his 
hands and pass into the room, where a couple of candies 
were burning on the broad mantelpiece. 

Fagan walked to the middle of the apartment, turned 
about, and, with a smile, lifted his hat, bowed and said : 

“I bid you good-evening, Paff and Hake and Bike and 
Yolney ; how are you all? I hope I see you well.” 

“Pixley Fagan!” was the exclamation of Paff Hig- 
gens, the first to recognize the famous detective. “What 
are you doing here?” 

“Awaiting your pleasure, gentlemen,” was the imper- 
turbable reply. 

But this facetiousness was wasted on these men. They 
were filled with wrath that the interloper should have 
followed them to their chosen retreat. Each man held 
his weapon in hand, and the scowling, threatening looks 
they cast upon the prisoner boded ill to him. 

“We don’t want any fooling from you. If you know 
what is best you will answer our questions truthfully. ’ ’ 

“I cannot answer them before they are asked.” 

“What brought you to this out-of-the-way place?” 

“I saw my friend Volney Biggs strolling in this direc- 
tion, and having nothing special on hand, thought it 
would be interesting to follow him. I did so ; came in 
the front hall, and employed myself in listening to your 
entertaining conversation.” 

“How much did you hear?” demanded Higgens. 

Had Fagan attempted to deceive these men by pretend- 
ing he had just come and had not caught enough words 
to give him any knowledge of their scheme, every one 
of the four would have known he was speaking an un- 


156 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


truth. It could not have helped him, and was likely to 
work him injury. 

“I have not been here long, but long enough to hear, 
as I judge, about all that was worth hearing. I under- 
stand you have things fixed to crack the vault of the 
Berwyck Bank to-night, and that you intend to stay in 
this old house until the hue and cry is over. ’ ’ 

There the whole thing was in a nutshell. What more 
could they ask? . 

“How is it you happen to be in Berwyck at the same 
time with us?” 

This was an important question, and, as will be ob- 
served, the detective’s reply was straightforward, even 
though misleading. 

“I was sent for to look into another matter. ” 

“What was it?” 

“That I cannot tell you, for it would be unprofessional. 
I pledge you my word, however, that it has not the re- 
motest connection with any one of you. You can well 
understand that, when I say I have been in Berwyck the 
better part of two days, and had no suspicion when I 
came that any one of you had ever been in the town. In- 
deed, it is less than two hours since I accidentally laid 
eyes on Yolney Biggs.” 

The criminals were inclined to believe this statement. 

“Well,” said Higgens, “we’ve got you here, and that 
bank is to be cracked to-night. What do you suppose we 
are going to do with you?” 

Detective Fagan shrugged his shoulders. 

“I would be pleased if I could answer that question, 
but I shall have to wait until I hear from you. ’ ’ 

“There’s only one thing to do,” interposed Volney 
Biggs, who in some respects was the worst of the party. 

A suggestive movement of his pistol left no doubt of 
his fearful meaning. A word from the leader would have 
caused Biggs to carry out his own wishes, and he would 
have done it, too, with pleasure. 

But here was the problem: To release the prisoner 
would destroy the scheme they had elaborated with so 
much care and place every one of the four in peril, for 


157 


BANK BURGLARY. 

the detective would be certain to turn his liberty to the 
best account without delay. 

Now there was not one of those four who was not ready 
to shoot his man in the way of self-defense, or when it 
became necessary to insure the success of an enterprise. 
Their previous history had proven that. 

There was only one of them, however, who was pre- 
pared to kill a detective when it was not absolutely nec- 
essary. That one was Volney Biggs. He had followed 
his dark career sufficiently long to look upon all officers 
of the law as his mortal enemies. He especially detested 
Pixley Fagan, who had carried for months a warrant for 
his arrest, and was suspected of holding similar papers 
relating to one or more other members of the party. 

The question presented itself as to what was to be done 
with the officer to prevent his interfering with their 
plans. 

Fagan would have given his parole and respected it, 
but the ruffians were too suspicious to take any chances 
like that. 

“ ‘Dead men tell no tales,’ ” added Volney Biggs. “If 
you fellows are afraid to undertake the job I’ll do it 
myself.” 

“Let me have my pistol,” said Detective Fagan, “and 
I’ll be pleased to stand up in front of that coward.” 

But Biggs had no intention of settling the question in 
that fashion. 

While Paff Higgens was as merciless as Biggs, he 
looked ahead. The taking off of so widely known an 
officer as Pixley Fagan would be certain to be discovered 
sooner or later, followed by a strong probability that the 
crime would be brought home to them. 

That was liable to produce unpleasant consequences. 

While the discussion was going on Higgens took a 
candle from the mantel, and said to Hoover : 

“Come with me.” 

He led the way down the stone steps to the cellar, 
whose door was at the side of the room. Pausing at the 
bottom, Higgens held the light above his head and looked 
around. 


158 


THfE great berwyck 


It was a spacious apartment., and. like most of the old- 
fashioned ones, wholly below ground. The two small 
windows, which allowed light to enter during the day, 
opened into little excavations dug on the outside, and 
neither window was large enough to allow any animal 
larger than a cat to crawl through. 

All the walls were a foot in thickness. The only possi- 
ble egress was through the door at the head of the steps 
by which they had descended into the cellar. 

“What do you think of it?” asked Higgensof his com- 
panion. 

“It will do ; it couldn’t be more secure, but what about 
the door up the steps?” 

“Some one will have to stand guard there.” 

“Who shall it be?” 

“Biggs.” 

“But he’ll shoot the prisoner.” 

“What of it? We'll be away when it’s done.” 

“I understand, ” replied Hoover, with a nod of his head. 

“Enough said: let’s go up.” 

Paff Higgens led the way to the upper room, where the 
rest listened to his decision. 

He made his announcement in a few words. 

“It won’t do to let this young man loose till we finish 
our business. The cellar looks pretty strong. Mr. Fagan 
will oblige me by going down the steps and staying there 
for a few days. Inasmuch as he may get into mischief 
if left to himself, Yolney will stay in the building to 
guard him. Yolney, you are free to follow your own 
judgment how best to do that. When Mr. Fagan goes 
out among his friends again he isn’t likely to boast 
about this affair.” 

No, indeed ; could the detective ever recall the episode 
without mortification? Never was an officer more per- 
fectly checkmated. 

“I bid you good-evening, gentlemen, and may your 
scheme of to-night be confounded. ’ ’ 

Detective Fagan, hat in hand, bowed to the party, 
walked to the head of the stairs and coolly descended 


BANK BURGLARY. 


159 


into the darkness below. His frightful imprisonment 
Had begun. 

Yolney Biggs was disposed at first to protest against 
the arrangement of their leader, for it eliminated him 
from all active participation in the unlawful business 
where his distinct part had been assigned. 

But the scheme, after all, commended itself to him in 
more than one respect. In the first place, he was the 
most cowardly member of the company. He saw that 
if any miscarriage resulted his situation would be far 
better than theirs. His confederates were bound to pro- 
tect each other to the last extremity, and, if worst came 
to worst, he could prove an alibi at Ihe time of the burg- 
lary. 

Then he was to have charge of his most execrated en- 
emy; that triumph was .worth much. So he assented to 
the scheme. 

The understanding was that the three men should leave 
the old stone house about eleven o’clock, making their 
way to the bank each by a different route. Bike Warner 
was to take the lead, signaling to them as near the hour 
of midnight as he could, if the coast was clear. 

The reader has learned how this arrangement was car- 
ried into effect, supplemented by the complete overthrow 
of the whole plan. v 

The intention of the three active participants was to 
return to the stone house in the early hours of the morn- 
ing, there to remain in hiding during the hue and cry. 
Then, when the opening became favorable, they would 
steal away, one by one, in the darkness to meet again in 
the heart of the great metropolis. 

Thus it came about that Yolney Biggs found himself 
the only member of the party in the building, before the 
coming of the turn of night. He sat in the upper room, 
where he had been left by his companions with the can- 
dles burning and with his prisoner below stairs. 

He had given his own weapon to Hake Hoover, and re- 
tained the handsome revolver taken from Detective 
Fagan. 

The door leading to the cellar, like all the rest, was 


180 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


much more massive and strong than is generally the case 
in houses of more modern make. It opened inward, and 
was secured by means of a powerful iron bolt. Its posi- 
tion, protecting it from the weather, caused it to be much 
better preserved than the other doors. 

The situation of the prisoner could hardly have been 
more secure. The single door by which he could escape 
was the one just mentioned. Since that opened into the 
cellar, it could be moved only by drawing it toward him. 
Every one knows how slight is the force he might exert in 
that direction as compared with a pushing movement, 
into which he could throw his whole strength, greatly 
increased by hurling his body against the obstruction. 

Even that recourse was made useless by the position of 
the door at the head of the steps, which precluded any 
gathering of momentum, or what may be considered as 
leverage. 

On the other hand, Yolney Biggs was at vast advan- 
tage. He had a loaded firearm at command. The pris- 
oner was unarmed. At the best he could not force the 
door until after determined and persistent effort. He 
would hardly venture upon that, knowing as he must 
that in case of success he would be confronted by the 
weapon of his mortal enemy. 

It cannot be known what sinister designs assumed form 
in the treacherous depths of the miscreant’s heart. Prob- 
ably he contemplated an excuse for shooting the helpless 
officer, but was deterred by the fear of consequences. 

The body of Fagan might not be found for weeks, but 
one fact could be brought home to Yolney Biggs : he had 
visited the house a short time before the disappearance 
of the officer, and represented to Watchman Otter that 
he was considering the purchase of the structure. 

Trifling as was this incident, it would be made to con- 
nect him with the crime, and he shuddered to think what 
the ultimate end of the other detectives’ work would as- 
suredly be. 

No ; much as he might wish to put Fagan out of the 
way, he was .afraid to do it. He would leave him in his 
underground prison without food or water, there to per- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


161 


ish for aught his jailer cared ; but that was the furthest 
extent to which Biggs dared go in that direction. 

For a full half-hour the ruffian turned over in his mind 
a scheme of making a bargain with his prisoner, by which 
the latter should pledge himself to drop all proceedings 
against him. 

The trouble about this, however, was that Biggs was 
estopped from offering anything like adequate consider- 
ation, since he dare not release Fagan, who would accept 
no other terms, if indeed he would accept those. 

Biggs shrank from the attempt to- take the papers from 
his man. Although larger physically than the officer, 
he knew Fagan was a terrible antagonist, who more than 
likely would get the better of him. 

But the decisive point against the whole thing was that 
any papers obtained forcibly could not be of the slightest 
possible benefit to Biggs. 

Furthermore, it was likely that all documents which 
concerned the criminal were at the hotel where Fagan 
had been stopping. 

It was natural that Biggs should fall to wondering how 
his prisoner was passing his time in the gloom below 
stairs. He could hear nothing, though he stood by the 
door several times listening for sounds from below. The 
tomb could not have been more profoundly still. 

He returned to his seat, lighted a cigar, and, looking 
up at the single tallow candle that was left on the man- 
tel, awaited the slow passage of time. 

He calculated that his friends would be engaged for a 
considerable while at the bank. At the end of three 
hours, therefore, one or more of them ought to be back 
at the stone building. 

It was now one o’clock, as a glance at his watch 
showed, and the minutes moved with leaden feet. 

He assumed the easiest posture he could in the unfur- 
nished room, and, despite the many stirring thoughts 
which filled his mind, dropped asleep. 

When he awoke the morning light was shining through 
the broken windows. The night had passed. 


162 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


As soon as lie recalled liis wandering senses he sprang 
up and dashed to the door at the head of the cellar stairs. 

A second’s examination proved it had not been opened 
and showed no signs of disturbance. The iron bolt was in 
place, and Hercules himself could not have forced it from 
the other side. 

Biggs listened, but ail was silent below. Nevertheless, 
he knew his man was there, for he had not passed 
through the only avenue of escape that it was possible to 
use. 

But what meant the absence of Higgens, Hoover and 
Warner? They ought to have returned hours ago. 

Could anything have gone amiss? 

Volney Biggs grew faint at the thought, but no other 
explanation presented itself. 

His anxiety intensified into torture. He peeped out of 
the windows, but saw only a farmer driving along the 
highway. 

He could stand it no longer. He must*find out what it 
all meant. 

But the prisoner below stairs — what would become of 
him ? 

Biggs knew of the two windows which let in a few 
streakings of daylight. They were too small to help Fa- 
gan. No ; the door must be used, and that alone. 

The criminal now examined the fastenings once more. 
There was no way of making them more secure. In 
fact, they were as strong as the entrance to the peniten- 
tiary from which he had so much trouble in escaping 
several years before. 

“He won’t dare approach the door as long as he thinks 
I am on the watch,” was the belief of Biggs, “so I will 
let him continue to believe I am at my post.” 

This was easily done. He slipped out of the rear of the 
house on tiptoe, and then reached the highway by a 
roundabout course which precluded all possibility of the 
detective seeing him had he attempted to use the small 
windows. 

Pulling himself together, Biggs walked as briskly as 
was prudent toward Berwyck, with eyes and ears alert. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


163 


He did not have to go far before his worst fears were 
confirmed. The whole town knew of and were talking 
about the attempted burglary of the bank. All three of 
the men concerned had been captured, and were at that 
moment securely locked in the county jail. 

“Heavens!” muttered the startled Biggs, “suppose I 
had been with the boys last night ! They would have 
gathered me in, sure. I think the best thing for me to 
do is to run.” 

But, instead of yielding to this natural impulse, he 
mustered enough courage to stand his ground. Still fur- 
ther, he began stirring himself in behalf of his unfortu- 
nate comrades. He visited them in jail, under the pre- 
tense of being a lawyer, engaged the services of Mr. Mur- 
phy in the hopeless case, and left no stone unturned that 
promised the slightest hope. 

Volney Biggs was shrewd enough to discover one im- 
portant fact. Pixley Fagan was not the only detective 
concerned in baffling the burglars. Some one besides him, 
and possessing greater skill than he, had taken a hand. 

Who this man was Biggs did not know, though he 
meant to learn in the course of the day. Well aware that 
he himself would be an object of interest, if not sus- 
picion, he resorted to the common artifice of leaving 
town, only to return stealthily later in the evening. 

It was he who, prowling in the neighborhood of Presi- 
dent Dillingham’s home, was attracted by the move- 
ments of Dixon, the bookkeeper, and held his house for 
a short time under surveillance, with no well-defined 
idea of what he hoped to accomplish by that course. 

Biggs’s absence from town for the afternoon prevented 
his ascertaining the identity of the detective that had en- 
trapped the burglars so cleverly, but he was certain of 
learning before the passing of the next day. 

As the reader has learned, he found it out before the 
passing of that night. 

Biggs went back to the hotel and repeated his visit to 
the room belonging to Pixley Fagan. Wliile he was en- 
gaged in examining the luggage of the missing detective 
he met his Waterloo. 


164 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 

• • 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“SO YOU ARE HERE?” 

• 

Meanwhile, how was Detective Fagan getting along? 

There was no use in lamenting his foolhardiness, or 
regretting the step that had brought this peril upon 
him. He was caught in the worst predicament of his 
life, and the question that confronted him was what 
could he do to help himself? 

He paused at the bottom of the stairs and stood mo- 
tionless until he heard the bolt slid into place. Then he 
listened to the murmur of voices, but could not distin- 
guish the words. It mattered not, for he felt no further 
interest in what was said. 

Drawing a match from the little safe in his pocket, he 
struck it and began an exploration of his prison. 

Several matches sufficed to give him as much knowl- 
edge as if the whole interior were brightly illuminated. 
He was surrounded by four thick stone walls, so com- 
pactly cemented that the cellar was as if hewn out of 
the solid rock. 

The floor was of earth, quite hard, but susceptible to 
his pocket-knife. To tunnel under the walls and to the 
surface outside, however, would require days, and possi- 
bly weeks, of unremitting work. He would perish with 
thirst or starvation meanwhile, for it was not to be sup- 
posed that his captors meant to furnish him with water 
and food. 

So any essay in that direction was not to be entertained. 

The smallness of the two windows rendered them 
equally unavailable. It struck him as strange that the 
cellar contained no second or outer entrance, but such 
was the case. Everything that had ever entered or been 
carried out of it was by means of the door he himself had 
used. 

Wishing to economize his supply of matches, which 
numbered hardly a dozen, he devoted a half-hour to 
fingering the walls in different places, in the hope of 


BANK BURGLARY. 


165 


finding some loose stones that might be further displaced. 
Nothing of the kind presented itself. 

He half suspected that when Volney Biggs was left 
alone upstairs he would carry out his threat against him. 
The detective, therefore, fought shy of the foot of the 
steps, and held himself ready to .retreat if the man ap- 
peared. 

He meant to compel Biggs to enter the cellar to com- 
plete his work, and in that event there was no saying 
what might occur. 

But, as the reader knows, nothing of the kind took 
place. 

Pixley Fagan was too active of mind and body to re- 
main idle ; all he was waiting for was to discover the 
best means of helping himself. 

Tire subterranean prison contained absolutely nothing 
at all, not so much even as a billet of wood. 

The crossbeams were on a level with his head, so that 
he was compelled to stoop slightly in moving about. By 
straightening up he could easily press the palms of his 
hands against the heavy boards which formed the floor, 
supported on the beams. 

This fact decided his course of procedure. 

Several more of the precious matches were used to help 
him scrutinize the roof of the cellar. 

It may be said of the men who put together this old 
structure that they builded better than they knew . Here 
were the floors and many portions as strong as on the 
day the edifice was completed. The same will probably 
be said a half-century from to-day. 

Pixley Fagan determined to cut his way through the 
floor overhead to one of the rooms above. If he could do 
that and climb out of the cellar, he was ready to take his 
chance of escaping. 

It need not be said that he selected the corner furthest 
removed from where the men were holding their coun- 
cil. The cellar did not extend under the kitchen portion, 
but reached to the furthest extremity of the front of the 
building. It was there the prisoner decided to begin his 
work. 


166 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


The task was a most formidable one, for the only in- 
strument at his command was his pocket-knife, whose 
sharp blades were so delicate that the utmost care was 
necessary to prevent their breakage while working in the 
dark. 

If it should prove that the boards composing the floor 
were dovetailed into each other, the difficulty of his task 
would be increased almost immeasurably. 

But minutes were valuable, and Pixley Fagan had 
none to throw away. 

He had fixed the point of beginning so clearly in his 
mind that it was continually before him, though work- 
ing in utter darkness. 

Using his left hand as a help to guide him, he began 
cutting in the wood at right angles to the grain. It was 
easy to decide how large a space was needed to permit 
the passage of his body, and he set to work to open such 
a passage. 

It was fearfully slow work. The wood was oak, and it 
had been seasoned by a century of use. It would take 
hours to cut through any portion of it, but it was far bet- 
ter to keep busy than to sit down and fold his hands in 
despair. » 

Fagan knew he was making progress, though it was 
exasperatingly slow. The unusual position of his arm, 
all the while extended above his head, and the continu- 
ous pressure and movement of the fingers, after a time 
brought so great fatigue to arm and hand that he was 
obliged to rest. 

In a few minutes, however, he was at it again, and 
thus the work went on through the long, lonely hours of 
the night. 

No one not similarly placed can understand the tedious- 
ness and trying nature of the task. After a time Fagan’s 
right shoulder began aching, and caused such intense 
pain that he shifted the knife to his left hand, in the 
hope of obtaining relief without losing time. 

But the man was not ambidextrous, and to his dismay 
the first effort snapped the knifeblade in two. 

“Heavens!” he muttered, “that ruins everything. ” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


167 


He stood for a minute bathed in cold perspiration, 
though the cellar was ehilly at that hour. But the de- 
spair in his heart quickly vanished, when he recalled that 
his knife contained two other blades, though one of them 
was the small file meant for the finger-nails, but which 
is generally more ornamental than useful. 

Furthermore, of the broken blade one half remained. 
The abrupt angle made by the fracture caused this to be 
tenfold more effective. Forgetting his aching shoulder, 
he applied the piece of steel with such vigor that he ac- 
complished more in the next half-hour than in double 
that time before the accident. 

‘‘Ft would have paid me to begin by breaking all the 
knifeblades,” was his thought, though he did not adopt 
the method with either of the remaining portions. 

The hour came, however, when he had to stop opera- 
tions for a longer time than usual. He sat down on the 
damp floor, with his back against the wall, so tired that, 
after the aching in his shoulder passed off. ,he imitated 
the man overhead — sank into sleep. 

He opened his eyes after Yolney Biggs had departed. 
The cellar was filled with a faint light, caused by the 
sun's rays entering the small windows. 

Fagan started up at the thought that if Biggs had 
known of his unconsciousness he could have descended 
the steps and carried out his fell purpose against him. 

However, nothing of the sort had been done, and it was 
useless to think of it. 

As the detective climbed to his feet and stretched his 
limbs he became aware of two uncomfortable facts : he 
was exceedingly thirsty and hungry. Inasmuch as nothing 
in the wav of food or drink had been offered him, it was 
evident he was to be left to perish by one of the most 
miserable and lingering of deaths. 

But such a taking off could not come for several days, 
no matter how intense the suffering. 

Meanwhile, he must work, work. work. 

And work he did, plying the knife till the wrists gave 
out. the shoulder was wrenched with pam and the eyes 
ached from their constant tension. 


168 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


When, the growing dimness of the light in the cellar, 
and a glance at his watch, told him that the day was 
drawing to a close and a second night was closing in, the 
task was not finished, though much progress had been 
made. 

The prisoner had cut a deep gutter on the four sides of 
a square a foot and a half in diameter. Around this hol- 
low the knife had traveled again and again, eating a lit- 
tle further on each circuit, until he began to hope he had 
wellnigh penetrated the thickness of the boards in sev- 
eral places. 

He ceased cutting at one end, giving all his efforts to 
the other three sides. When they gave way it would be 
easy to snap off the remaining portion. 

But night descended, and he was still at it. Every pos- 
sible incentive urged him on. He knew the crisis at the 
bank had come and gone long before. Kneeland Ely 
must be puzzled and alarmed over his absence, but could 
never dream of its explanation, and was powerless to 
help him. 

He was ahungered and athirst, but the only means of 
obtaining relief was by cutting his way out of his prison. 
He must keep at it or quit and die. 

Many a time he thought of attacking the door, but that 
was as near impregnable as the floor before he began cut- 
ting. Besides, he suspected Volney Biggs was waiting 
for such a pretext for firing upon him. 

No, he had struck the one and only course. 

Finally, the wearied officer closed his knife and re- 
placed it in his pocket. Then he put both hands against 
the square space inclosed by the deep furrow made by 
his knifeblade, steadied himself and pushed upward with 
his utmost strength. 

The whole piece yielded as though it were an eggshell. 
A similar effort two hours before would have accom- 
plished the same thing. 

With a thrill of hope, the detective grasped the edges 
of the opening with both hands and drew himself through. 

Had he been sure of landing right among the four 
burglars he would hardly have hesitated. His prison had 


BANK BURGLARY. 


169 


become so hateful that he felt he would lose his mind if 
he stayed longer in it. 

The occasion warranted the use of one of the two re- 
maining matches. His listening ear caught no evidence 
that his jailer had heard or suspected what was done, so 
he did not fear to draw the match along the hard floor 
and look about him. 

He had entered the large room which years before 
served as the parlor of the old stone house. Neither on 
the mildewed walls nor on the hard floor was there the 
first sign of picture or furniture. For generations it had 
been deserted and bereft of everything except the wide, 
gaping fireplace and the traces of what once had been. 

Fagan moved quickly and softly across the floor to the 
door that led into the hall where he was playing the 
eavesdropper at the time of his capture. It opened 
readily, as did the outer door. 

Within three minutes after he climbed through the 
opening in the roof of the cellar he was in the fresh, 
glorious air on the outside. 

Happy, thankful, hopeful — but, oh, so thirsty and 
hungry ! 

His first step was to hasten down the road, and then, 
when satisfied no one was observing him, he hurried to 
the clear little stream winding through the hollow, knelt 
down and quaffed his fill. 

“I wonder whether there are enough provisions in Ber- 
wyck to give me the supper I want?” was his next 
thought as he strode rapidly toward the town. 

He was confident that disaster had overtaken the 
criminals, since, from what he knew of the preparations 
made, he could not well see how it could result other- 
Avise. 

Besides, the profound stillness within the stone house 
he had just left was proof that the party had not carried 
out their scheme of rendezvousing there afterward. 
There could be but the one explanation of this failure. 

Like Volney Biggs, who preceded him over the road, 
Pixley Fagan had not far to go before learning the truth. 
The attempt against the bank had not only failed but 


170 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


three of the burglars were securely lodged behind lock 
and key. 

That much learned, the great load was lifted from De- 
tective Fagan’s mind. He therefore went straight to the 
hotel, and, though the hour was late, ordered a meal be- 
fitting a man’s physical condition who had not tasted 
food for more than twenty-four hours. 

And while Kneeland Ely and Volney Biggs were hold- 
ing their interesting chat upstairs the gentleman into 
whose apartment they had intruded was coming up the 
steps in a very comfortable frame of mind. 

“Helloa !” he said to himself, when he caught the 
glimmer of light beneath the door, “some one has made 
a mistake.” 

In accordance with his habits of caution, lie stepped 
softly, pausing in the hall outside and listening. 

“Helloa ! that’s Ely’s voice, I’m sure : whom is he talk- 
ing with?” 

A minute’s listening answered the question. 

“Volney Biggs, as sure as I’m alive ! He’s deserted his 
post and come down to my room. I wonder if they’re 
discussing the tariff question.” 

The position of Fagan enabled him to catch every 
word, even though the speakers were talking in unusually 
low tones. 

At the crisis of the conversation Fagan pushed open 
the door, with the exclamation : 

“There is no need of that ; here he is ! ” 

Nothing could have shown the training of the two 
friends more strikingly than their course at this crisis. 

Kneeland Ely did not look around at the man whose 
voice he recognized. He did not forget that the ruffian 
in front of him was on the alert to seize any advantage 
the instant it presented itself. 

In the most matter-of-fact manner Ely said : 

“Pix, take his revolver out of his pocket.” 

“It will afford me great pleasure to do so— Helloa! 
by George! it’s my own little beauty,” he exclaimed, 
deftly removing and holding aloft the pistol before Vol- 
ney Biggs could have prevented had he dared to do so. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


171 


“So you are here?” remarked the scamp with a smile, 
looking in the face of his former prisoner; “we were 
just going after you.” 

‘ That doesn’t seem necessary now,” observed Knee- 
land Ely; “but I gathered from what you said, Mr. 
Biggs, that my friend Pix had been wounded ; I do not 
observe that anything is the matter with him.” 

“That was only a little joke of mine; I wouldn’t have 
hurt the dear fellow for the world. I meant to excite 
your fears, and then make you happy by showing how 
well we treated your friend. ’ ’ 

“If he had had his wav,” said Fagan, “he would have 
used his pistol on me long ago ; but, Len , what are you 
going to do with this gentleman? I don’t want him in 
my room for the whole night. ’ ’ 

“We’ll deliver him to the authorities, and let him join 
his friends in the county jail. Then Lawyer Murphy will 
have enough to occupy his gigantic talents.” 

Under the guard and custody of Ely and Fagan, Vol- 
ney Biggs was speedily lodged in as secure confinement 
as were those of his confederates that had preceded him 
to imprisonment. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“enough! you have proven it.” 

Kneeland Ely and Pixley Fagan had too much to 
discuss, after delivering their prisoner to the authorities, 
to think of retiring for a long time. ' 

In the first place, Fagan gave a minute account of all 
that had befallen him after his “dropping out’ of 
matters on the preceding evening. 

Kneeland listened without a question, but indulged in 
a smile at some of the grotesque features of his friend’s 
experience. 

He uttered no word of reproach; It was not his habit 
to do that, for he felt that none is exempt from criticism 
himself. 

It took Ely a shorter time to relate all that could in- 


172 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


terest his friend respecting the four men that had been 
lodged in jail. 

“Now, as the case stands,” added Ely, “we are back 
again precisely where we started several days ago. ’ ’ 

“In what respect?” 

“Reflect. This episode of the burglars — that is, Hig- 
gens, Hoover & Co. — is only a parenthesis in the flow of 
incidents ; it is a side issue — nothing to do with the main 
purpose.” 

Eagan nodded his head. 

“You were sent for a few days since by President Dil- 
lingham to try to clear up the mystery of the missing 
hundred thousand dollars. You and I both came. Just 
as matters were assuming shape four of our old acquaint- 
ances took it into their heads to rob the bank that had 
just suffered a big loss. ’Twas the oddest coincidence I 
ever knew, and but for the preceding burglary the quar- 
tette would have cleaned out about everything. ’ ’ 

“And not one of the four understands as yet how we 
happened to be in Berwyck at the time of their visit. ’ ’ 

“And probably never will; they will all be somewhat 
older and wiser men than they are to-night when they 
get out again. But business is business — ” 

“Which reminds me,” interrupted Fagan; “I wonder 
whether that fellow took away any of my documents?” 

He made a hasty examination of his valise and the 
drawers of the bureau, but so far as he could ascertain 
nothing was missing. 

“He didn’t find What he was looking for.” suggested 
Ely. 

“It doesn’t look as if he did, though I don’t see how 
anything of mine in the way of papers can help him. 
But I interrupted you.” 

“You remember the papers which you brought from 
the house of President Dillingham, Pix?” 

“Yes; I left them with you.” 

“I have them,” said Ely, drawing the package from 
an inner pocket and spreading it out on the stand under 
the gaslight. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


173 


“They contain a good specimen of the handwriting of 
Dixon, the bookkeeper of the Berwyck Bank.” 

“And also a letter of Mr. Dillingham, and the missive 
that was shoved under the door of the bank when you 
and I were sitting in the directors’ room. We will make 
another comparison of them. ” 

“Shall I try it first?” 

“If you please; let pie know your conclusion.” 

‘ ‘That has been already reached. ’ ’ 

“Possibly you may revise it,” was the quiet remark of 
Fagan, who leaned back in his chair. 

Pixley Fagan spent several minutes in careful study of 
the several papers, but he did it only to oblige his friend. 

“What is your second decision?” asked Kneeland Ely. 

“Confirmatory of the first.” 

“And that is what?” 

“I pride myself upon being somewhat of an expert in 
reading chirography. ’ ’ 

“Did you ever know of three experts reaching the 
same conclusion?” 

“I don't understand what you are hinting at, ’ ’ remarked 
Fagan, taking up the papers again and glancing at them. 

“You have not fully answered my question as to what 
your conclusion is.” 

“I never knew a person who could successfully dis- 
guise his handwriting for any length of time. He may 
work out a few words or sentences that will mislead you, 
but when it comes to a page of note or foolscap, he is 
sure to betray himself. That person who shoved the let- 
ter under the door took every pains to conceal his handi- 
work, but half-way down the page he drops into some 
mannerisms that betray him. My conclusion is that the 
same hand that wrote the purposely misspelled words is 
the same that wrote this.” 

“You feel no doubt on that point?” 

“Not the slightest.” 

“All the same, Pix, you are ivrong . ” 

“Impossible! you can never make me believe that.” 

“I shall do so in a few minutes. Study that script in 
your hand more closely, and you will find that the writer 


174 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


not only attempted to disguise his handwriting but 
strove still harder to make it resemble the writing of 
some one else.” 

“What in the name of the seven wonders was his ob- 
ject?” 

“He knew the note would pass under the critical eye 
of experts like you and me, and he meant to divert sus- 
picion to an innocent party.” 

“You must be mistaken, Len,” exclaimed Fagan, who, 
without noticing it, dropped into the habit of addressing 
his friend by the name to which he was more accustomed 
than that of Kneeland Ely. 

“Let us see,” said the latter, drawing his chair closer 
to the table. 

Then he proceeded to point out what might be called 
microscopic evidences of his remarkable declaration. 
There were plenty of them, and few indeed would have 
detected what to Ely was as plain as day. 

But if there ever was a marvelous expert at that sort 
of business Kneeland Ely was the man. The skill of 
Pixley Fagan was as that of a child compared with it. 

He was still engaged at his task when Fagan inter- 
rupted. 

“Enough ! you have proven it! I own up; but, heav- 
ens ! what is the conclusion?” 

“I need not name it. If I am right, and you know that 
I am, only one conclusion is possible. ’ 

Neither spoke ; but they understood each other. 

“Len,”sai<I the other, almost in a whisper, “there’s an- 
other party whom we ought to see.” 

“Who is he?” 

“Old Otter, the watchman that was discharged and 
then taken back again. He must have an interesting 
story to tell, if it can be drawn from him.” 

“He has the story, and has told it.” 

“To whom?” 

“Tome.” 

“And what is it?” 

“That, on the night the one hundred thousand was 
taken from the vault of the Berwyck Bank, and previous 


BANK BURGLARY. 


175 


to the visit of the thief, Otter was drugged, though he 
never suspected it.” 

“How could that be?’' 

Kneeland Ely told of his visit to the old watchman, 
and what he revealed of the medicine given to him for 
his rheumatism. 

“When I held the empty phial to my nose I caught the 
odor of laudanum. Perhaps he saw a dim glimmering 
of the truth in my words and manner, but he is too slow 
of intellect to comprehend the shameful trick that was 
played on him.” 

“And he gave you the name of the party?” 

“He had been cautioned not to do so, and had pledged 
himself he would not. No bribe or threat could induce 
him to break his word, but, Pix, it wasn’t necessary ; I 
am glad he didn’t utter the name.” 

“So am I,” was the comment of Fagan. “What is the 
next step?” 

“For each of us to go to bed. It’s past two o’clock ; 
no need of rising early. Good-night. ’ ’ 

Kneeland Ely darted out of the door and into his own 
room, where a few minutes later he was sunk in a 
profound slumber. 

Pixley Fagan lay awake a long time, disturbed by tor- 
turing meditations over what had taken place within the 
preceding two or three days, supplemented by the 
astounding knowledge that had come to him that even- 
ing through his friend in the adjoining room. But at 
last he, too, became unconscious and did not wake until 
late the following morning. 

“Pix,” said Ely, in his sharp, business way, when they 
met again after their first meal in the room of Fagan, 
“your absence from the rounding up of the party a couple 
of nights ago must have caused some wonderment on the 
part of President Dillingham. I haven’t had time to ex- 
plain matters to him, and if I had had the time I was at 
a loss how to do it. Drop around there and make your 
report.” 

“What shall I say?” 

“I see no objection to your telling the truth. You 


176 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


may not feel very proud while doing so, but you can 
gloss over your session in the cellar of Watchman Otter's 
old house and make it appear that you overcame your 
four enemies single-handed.” 

“I suspect he would hold doubts on that scoTe, but I 
will make the call you suggest.” 

“If I am not here, don’t feel slighted. Before I decide 
on what is to be done to-day I must gather some knowl- 
edge. Off with you now. ” 

But upon reaching the home of President Dillingham 
Detective Fagan was told he was absent, though ex- 
pected back at any moment. 

It was his niece, Miss Crosslands, who made this ex- 
planation, and invited the caller inside so cordially that 
Fagan accepted and found himself seated alone with the 
winsome young woman. 

With some hesitation she said : 

“You will pardon me, Mr. Fagan, but my uncle, who 
has few secrets from me, has made known your errand 
in Berwyck. That being the case, and feeling an inter- 
est as deep as he in your success, may I ask how are you 
progressing with your search for the parties who stole 
the large amount of money some nights ago?” 

The visitor was taken somewhat aback by this direct 
question, but he noted the distressful expression of her 
countenance and answered, as may be said, in a non- 
committal way : 

“Such work, you know, Miss Crosslands, is very diffi- 
cult, and fails more often than it succeeds.” 

“I suppose,” she remarked, “that it is wrong to feel 
pity for those who commit such crimes, but it always 
saddens me when I hear anything of them. There may 
be so many palliating circumstances of which we can 
know nothing ; a starving family, misfortune or some 
sudden, overwhelming temptation, repented of as soon as 
yielded to, but not soon enough to save the erring one — 
these and others make the crime one which can be rightly 
judged only by Him who is never wrong in His judg- 
ment. ’ ’ 

“True, and human judgment, being fallible, must not 


BANK BURGLARY. 


177 


be condemned too harshly. It is more often right than 
wrong, and, such as it is, it is the only thing that can 
make property and life safe.” 

“Do you think it right,” asked the young lady, the 
flush on her face deepening, “to allow the guilty parties 
in a case of this kind to escape prosecution?” 

“I am not sure I understand you.” 

“I am not sure that I understand myself ; but what I 
wish to ask is, whether you can conceive of a set of cir- 
cumstances in which you, as an officer of the law, would 
recommend that a wrongdoer should not be punished for 
what he has done?” 

“Yes, I can conceive of such circumstances. Suppose, 
for instance, the men who took this one hundred thou- 
sand dollars from the Berwyck Bank should voluntarily 
give it up ; why, having made all the restitution in their 
power, there is morally no crime, though technically 
they have violated the law.” 

“Suppose they should bffer to surrender a, portion f” 

Detective Fagan shook his head. 

“You must see, Miss Crosslands, that in such a case 
there is a double crime, and the demoralizing sin of com- 
pounding a felony, as it is called, is committed.” 

“Is such a course never justifiable?” 

“It is hard to conceive of circumstances where it would 
be.” 

“But cannot some good be accomplished?” 

“Possibly it might, so far as a single individual is con- 
cerned ; but evil is encouraged. Those who consent thus 
to compromise with wickedness are incited by the basest 
motives, for they not only profit themselves but help to 
protect the wrongdoers. No, the severest punishment 
should be visited upon those who dally with right.” 

The heart of the detective ached when uttering these 
sentiments, for he saw the distress they caused the young 
lady before him. 

She was a high-spirited and conscientious young wo- 
man, but, with her sex, when the heart is involved the 
judgment becomes untrustworthy. 

There was something in the situation which cut closer 


178 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


to her feelings than anything that had yet come to her in 
her young life. 

She looked up abruptly with the question : 

“Do you think you will succeed in discovering the per- 
sons guilty of this wrong?” 

“You must understand that it is impossible to answer 
that question, except by saying that 1 hope to do so. Your 
uncle has urged me to spare no effort or expense in the 
effort.” 

She made no comment on this, and he rose to his feet. 
His wishes had undergone a change during the brief in- 
terview ; he no longer desired to meet President Dilling- 
ham, and, fearful that if he remained longer he would do 
so, he bade the young lady good-day and withdrew. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“THE MAN BY THE ROCK DISCOVERED HIM.” 

At the same time that Pixley Fagan was holding his 
conversation with Miss Crosslands his friend Kneeland 
Ely was walking toward the Berwyck Bank. It was 
past the hour of opening, and he was confident of finding 
the president there. He wished to see him. Having re- 
sumed the personal appearance he showed when first 
entering Berwyck, he was recognized as the trusted 
watchman chiefly concerned in capturing the criminals 
—who, it may be said, had become the hero of the town. 
It was hard for him to pretend he did not hear the com- 
plimentary remarks continually made about him as he 
walked the streets. 

He saw groups on the opposite corners talking together, 
their admiring looks and gestures leaving no doubt that 
he was the subject of their remarks. He caught some of 
the observations of those whom he met face to face, and 
was obliged to acknowledge the salutations of grinning 
townspeople whom he never remembered to have seen, 
but who insisted upon claiming acquaintanceship. 

It will be understood, therefore, that when he entered 


BANK BURGLARY. 


179 


the bank he was respectfully greeted, and no questions 
were asked when he strolled back to the directors’ room. 

Of course every one now understood what it meant 
when he took the situation of watchman of the bank. It 
was to secure a chance which could be best gained by 
that little subterfuge. 

Kneeland Ely was the greatest detective in the city of 
New York. To him belonged the credit of outwitting 
and making prisoners of four desperate criminals, for the 
news had spread that he had lodged another, and the 
last, in jail. 

Kneeland Ely, as we shall continue to call him for a 
brief while longer, encountered a slight disappointment. 
When he knocked and then pushed open the door of the 
directors’ room the latter was empty. 

He returned and spoke to Cashier Mcllvaine. 

“Do you know when Mr. Dillingham will be here?” 

The cashier glanced at the clock on the wall. 

"We expected him a few minutes ago; I have no idea 
what detains him.” 

“I will wait a little while.” 

“Go into the room and make yourself at home.” 

“Thanks ; I will take the settee — that is, if Otter doesn’t 
come in and claim it,” added Ely with a smile, passing 
over and seating himself. 

The visitor hoped that the president would not arrive 
for a little while. He had secured a good point of view 
and wanted to look around him for a few minutes, not 
forgetting also to use his ears. 

Bookkeeper Dixon was busy at an adjoining desk. He 
cast a glance at the visitor and then bent to his work 
again. 

That single turn of his face to view revealed a distressed 
countenance which told of an almost intolerable load he 
was bearing on his young shoulders. 

Business was brisk for a time, and then came a lull 
such as is occasionally seen in similar institutions. 

Dixon turned his head again, but this time it was to- 
ward the cashier, to whom he spoke in a voice so low that 


180 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


but for the unusual quiet Ely would not have been able 
to overhear the words : 

'‘George, I think I will have to lie off for the afternoon. 

“You don’t look well,” was the sympathetic response 
of Mcllvaine ; “what’s the trouble, the grip?” 

“No, not that ; but I have been out of sorts for a day 
or two. I hope a half-day’s rest will put me in shape 
again.” 

“Why do you wait till noon? Go home now and get 
the benefit of the day.” 

“Your offer is tempting, but it will put too much on 
you ; this bank, you know, isn’t overburdened with help. ” 

“I will manage very well without you.” 

“I’m obliged to you, George, but I’ll stick to it till 
noon. ” 

And, to signify the question was settled, the bookkeeper 
turned to his work again. 

Kneeland Ely rose to his feet, and, with a half-military 
salute to the cashier, said : 

“It is hardly worth while to wait for Mr. Dillingham ; 
I can drop in later, when he will be here. ’ ’ 

“I am sure he will be glad to see you,” replied the 
cashier, returning the salutation. 

A block away Ely saw President Dillingham walking 
toward the bank. Ely had only to cross the street to 
greet him, but he took care not to do so. 

It looked as if, like Pixley Fagan, he had changed his 
mind about wishing to meet the head of the institution. 

Between two and three o’clock on the afternoon of 
that day Frank Dixon, who had remained home under 
the plea of illness, came out of the door of the modest 
cottage with his natty coat closely buttoned and swing- 
ing a small cane in his hand. He walked slowly, as if 
with considerable suffering. He looked nervous and in 
need of the fresh spring air. 

As he walked he glanced to the right and left, but see- 
ing no one in ’whom he was interested, moved in the di- 
rection of President Dillingham’s residence, moderating 
his gait still more as he came opposite, and looking up at 


BANK BURGLARY. 


181 


the same window which he had signaled some nights 
before. 

The eyes, roving along the handsome front of the 
dwelling, were rewarded by a sight of Miss Crosslands, 
who was expecting him. She showed herself at one of 
the windows, smiled and waved him a salute. He lifted 
his hat in reply and passed on. She stood at her post, 
gazing fondly after him as long as he was in sight, but 
he did not again look behind him. 

At the first comer young Dixon turned to the right and 
quickened his pace. The noticeable fact about his course 
was that he was now facing the open country and thus 
leaving the little town of Berwyck behind him. The 
further he went the more rapid became his gait. It did 
not take him long to place himself beyond the last house, 
when he struck out like a pedestrian in training. He 
swung his light cane jauntily about his head, occasion- 
ally whipping the branches of some overhanging tree at 
the side of the road or of a bush growing near his path. 
A colt was cropping the grass so close to the fence that 
Dixon reached over and gave him a smart blow on his 
haunch. The startled animal wheeled, let fly with both 
heels at the offender and galloped a hundred yards away 
in the pasture, when he stopped, faced about and snorted 
angrily at him, as if challenging him to climb the fence 
and have it out. Altogether, the bookkeeper of the Ber- 
wyck Bank acted like any person except an invalid. 

A small rattle-trap of a wagon clattered along the road 
over the same course taken by the young man. The ve- 
hicle seemed in the last stages of dilapidation, and the 
single horse between the shafts made spasmodic attempts 
at a trot, urged thereto by the blows of his driver, the 
jerking of the reins and his vigorous language. Such 
bursts of speed were not continued long before the ani- 
mal dropped abruptly again to a walk. This being slower 
than that of the pedestrian, caused the farmer to fall be- 
hind, while the occasional spurts lessened the space be- 
tween them. 

The driver’s appearance was in keeping with his horse 
and wagon. His shaggy hair fell about his shoulders 


182 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


from under his ragged hat, his clothes were old and of 
the fashion of years before. He sat on the right side of 
the single seat, continually yanking the lines with his 
left hand, while the right was as busily employed with 
the whip, which produced little effect upon the bony 
horse. 

For a half-mile the highway led through an attractive 
region, with thrifty farms on the right and left. It was 
just the sort of spring weather for work, and numbers of 
men and boys were in the fields. But, less than a mile 
away, Dixon made another turn in the course he was fol- 
lowing. This took him into a less frequented road and 
led toward a long stretch of rocky woods which rose into 
hills of several hundred feet elevation beyond. 

The ground being somewhat ascending, and the dis- 
tance to this point having been rapidly traversed, the 
young man showed signs of weariness. He slackened 
his pace from the moment of entering on his new course. 
It was then that he looked searchingly along the road in 
front and that over which he had just passed. If he was 
hunting for anything he did not find it, which fact, it is 
to be assumed, was not displeasing to him. 

Meanwhile, the old farmer who was having such a la- 
borious time with his nag turned into the less traveled 
road, though, as he expressed it, he was obliged almost 
to “saw his consarned head off.” Dixon looked back 
with an amused expression, but gave him and his animal 
no further attention. 

Probably at a distance of a quarter of a mile the road 
entered the long tract of woods alluded to, where there 
was no fence on either side and the ruts showed that 
days had passed since any team had been over the route. 
Dixon had slowed his pace again, and had not penetrated 
far among the trees when he turned for the last time, 
moving at right angles to the course of the highway. 

On this occasion he did not follow any other road, but 
passed among the trees, as if guiding his steps by means 
of some faintly marked footpath. The farmer had forced 
his animal to a trot once more, and he went by the point 
where the footman had turned off with a fine display cf 


BANK BURGLARY. 


183 


speed. The figure of the pedestrian was seen flickering 
among the trees, but they soon hid him from the sight of 
any one in the road. He did not look around at the 
wagon, but centered his attention on what was in front 
and which it was to be presumed he was approaching. 

A little way ahead the road made a turn to the left. 
The farmer did not go far along this when he drew his 
animal to one side, so that he and the wagon would be 
out of the way of any one passing along the highway. 
The horse was forced a few yards among the trees, when, 
with surprising nimbleness, the driver leaped out and 
hastily tied the halter to the limb of a tree. 

Any one studying the old man while thus engaged 
would have observed that his corduroy trousers were 
tucked in the tops of his heavy boots, while his slouchy 
coat descended to his knees, and was secured in front by 
a single button, all the rest being gone. The observant 
spectator would have noted another thing : that same 
frowsy farmer was well formed, and evidently was not 
only active of movement but exceptionally powerful. 

The animal being secured against wandering off, the 
man ran his hand under his coat at his hip, as if to make 
sure that some weapon was in place. He then started 
diagonally in the direction taken by Dixon a short time 
before. This course, if continued, and provided the other 
followed a straight line, must bring them together ere 
long. 

The forest, being clothed in its spring verdure, was 
quite dense, so that one passing through it could readily 
conceal himself. The ground, too, grew rougher and 
more broken. Rocks and bowlders appeared, causing 
short detours on the part of any one trying to follow ,a 
direct path. 

But the farmer paid little heed to his own footsteps. 
He walked like one accustomed to that kind of exercise, 
and was on the lookout for the young man that had 
turned off in the woods before he checked his horse at the 
side of the highway. 

This tousled-looking husbandman (whom the reader 
has truthfully suspected to be Kneeland Ely) had foi- 


184 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


lowed his man all the way from Berwyck, and he did not 
intend to lose him now, when it was evident that the one 
in advance held no suspicion of the trick played on him. 

“He can’t be far off, and I’ll nail him, but it would 
hardly do for him to see me ; that would rouse his sus- 
picion, and that means that the whole thing would be- 
come a flunk. ’ ’ 

An Apache Indian could not have shown more skill in 
stealing among the trees than did Ely, in the guise of a 
verdant farmer of the neighborhood. He gradually 
worked over to the right, until at last he struck the faint- 
ly marked footpath for which he was searching. 

“That young man can’t be far off,” he muttered, 
glancing down at the ground, “and I must be careful.” 

Despite the skill with which he moved, he narrowly 
missed a fatal blunder. The trail wound in and out 
among the trees in such a way that it was impossible to 
see more than a few paces in advance. He was moving 
forward in his guarded manner when he caught sight of 
his man a little way in advance. But for the fact that 
Dixon’s face was turned in the same direction he must 
have discovered that figure prowling behind him. 

The startled Ely dodged behind the nearest tree, large 
enough to shelter his body, and, removing his worthless 
hat, peered stealthily from behind the screen. 

The young man had also made use of a similar shelter, 
though it was not so large as that of the watchman, and 
he, too, was peeping at something which apparently was 
not far in advance. 

“While I’m watching him, he’s got some other fellow 
under his eye.” 

There could be no doubt of this, but the density of the 
vegetation prevented Ely’s discovering him. There must 
be a change of position before anything was accomplished. 

This came about sooner than the watchman antici- 
pated. Evidently Dixon was dissatisfied with his post, for 
he softly stepped from behind the tree and moved along 
the path, stepping as softly as if fearful that his foot- 
steps would arouse some one in the vicinity. 

Suddenly he looked around, as a person will do who 


BANK BURGLARY. 


185 


fears the very thing that was going on at that moment. 
Ely dared to hold his survey, for he knew that too little 
of his own face was exposed to be noticed. Dixon was 
scrutinizing the path, not the trees behind him. 

The watchman noticed the excessive paleness of the 
young man. He was laboring under great mental agi- 
tation. His glance backward was brief, when he re- 
sumed his advance in the same guarded manner as before. 

The winding path soon hid him from sight, and, at that 
moment, Ely emerged from behind his tree, stepped into 
the trail and followed after him. This peculiar course 
continued but for a few minutes, when the result was all 
that the watchman could wish. 

The path led into a natural opening clear of trees, though 
rocks and bowlders were numerous. Dixon had again 
sheltered himself, and the man at the rear lost no time 
in doing the same. 

The opening was less than half an acre in extent, and, 
standing near the center was a third person, well dressed, 
carrying also a cane and fully as old as Kneeland Ely. 

The attitude of this individual was peculiar. His two 
hands were thrust into the pockets of his light overcoat, 
thus causing the end of his cane to project upward be- 
hind his shoulder. He wore a fine silk hat, and his atti- 
tude and manner were those of a person meditating a 
step which he hesitates to take. 

He was erect, and kept glancing to the front, the right 
and left and behind him. Once he took several steps for- 
ward, then abruptly stopped and retreated again. This 
advance brought him close to the largest rock in sight. 
Something about that interested him. 

Frank Dixon was so absorbed in watching this person 
that nothing was to be feared from his looking back over 
the trail along which he had made his way to the spot. 

The shifting, vacillating action of the third party 
brought his countenance as distinctly into view as that 
of Dixon himself. Ely saw it, and it was so impressed 
upon his memory that it will remain with him through 
life. 

The singular hesitation could not last long. The per- 


186 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


son must decide either to do something or nothing. As 
if impatient with himself , he roused his energies, walked 
to the side of the rock, looked furtively around and was 
in the act of stooping when he abruptly stopped. 

Frank Dixon, in his agitation, had betrayed himself. 
He stepped from behind the sheltering tree, and, as he 
did so, the man by the rock discovered him. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ IT IS GONE !” 

Rather singularly, Kneeland Ely came near commit- 
ting the same blunder. Had he stood as near to the third 
man as did the younger he would have been seen at the 
same moment ; but he was alert enough to whisk back 
behind his shelter in time to avoid detection. 

“Now there will be a row!” was his conclusion; “I 
wouldn’t want to be in that bookkeeper’s shoes.” 

The elder, upon discovering the one that was watching 
him, started as if from the sting of a serpent. He as- 
sumed the upright position and stood several seconds 
staring at the young man. His face was aflame and a 
tempest raged in his breast. Then, with his cane up- 
raised, he strode toward the offender. 

The conduct of the latter, under the embarrassing cir- 
cumstances, was not lacking in a certain dignity. In- 
stead of fleeing or seeking to screen himself from recog- 
nition, he calmly walked forward and confronted the 
angry individual. 

“You sneak !” thundered the latter, with his cane up- 
raised, “what do you mean by dogging me?” 

The tones were so loud that they could have been heard 
considerably further away than where the watchman 
stood. But the reply of Dixon was in such a gentle voice 
that the listener did not catch a word of what was said. 

“You have no business to follow me,” continued the 
irate third party. “I have a mind to break every bone in 
your body. What do you mean by such conduct?” 


BANK BURGLARY. 187 

Again came that soft answer, which is said to turn 
away wrath, for the listening ear of the one at the rear 
©aught nothing of it. Dixon was gesticulating earnestly. 

“If I could only steal near enough to learn what is 
said, it would prove mighty interesting ; but that is im- 
possible. They would be sure to detect me, and then 
their combined w’rath would descend upon my head. ’ ’ 

For ten minutes the couple stood close together in the 
path, engaged in a low but excited conversation. By and 
by the observant watchman saw that Dixon was doing 
nearly all the talking. The other listened attentively, 
but answered by shaking his head, swinging his cane and 
shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the 
other, as a person is apt to do when under great mental 
excitement. 

By and by they faced about and began slowly walking 
along the path toward the highway where the watchman 
had left his horse and wagon. 

This brought them so near to the eavesdropper that he 
dared not peep out from his hiding-place. He counted 
himself lucky if they passed without discovering him, for 
the tree was hardly large enough to hide his body. 
His expectation was that they would continue their con- 
versation while passing near, and in that case were sure 
to say something worth his while to hear ; but, much to 
his disappointment, not a word was uttered by either, 
though their thoughts must have been busy. 

Fifty feet or more away Dixon turned about abruptly, 
stepping back a single pace from the track, so as to yield 
it to the other. Standing thus face to face, they renewed 
their conversation. The hum of their voices was heard, 
but nothing in the way of words could be identified. It 
was trying to the watchman, who, had he been a little 
further front or back while the conversations were going 
on, would have readily caught a portion of what passed. 
It would be supposed, now that the couple were drawing 
away from the spot, that Ely would follow them, for the 
second halt was brief ; but instead of doing so, he waited 
until they had disappeared behind a turn in the path, 
when he pushed toward the open space near him. 


188 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


Meanwhile, the others followed the winding trail until 
they debouched into the highway. Had they gone a little 
further up this— only around the first bend, in fact— they 
would have come upon a sleepy horse and a rattle-trap 
of a wagon, with the halter tied to a limb— an altogether 
unnecessary precaution, since no possible danger existed 
of the animal making a move until driven to it. 

The sight of this team doubtless would have caused 
some curiosity and started an investigation, but it was 
not noticed by either of the men, who walked along the 
road to the edge of the wood in silence, when once again, 
and for the last time, they halted. 

For half an hour or more they faced each other and 
talked like men deciding a question of life and death. 
The beauteous spring day drew to a close, the sun went 
down behind the hills and the twilight of coming night 
gathered over forest and meadow, and still they talked 
and argued, grew angry and then became cool, then one 
was sullen and then again each became interested. 

But, with the coming of night, the long-deferred de- 
cision was reached. Whatever the cause of - dispute, it 
was settled between them, though apparently on the 
strange condition that Dixon should leave the other and 
return to Berwyck, his companion remaining behind — 
for that was what took place. 

The young man emerged from the deeper gloom of the 
wood into the open country, and, swinging his cane in 
the same jaunty manner about his shoulder and head as 
he walked, struck into the rapid, elastic pace he had 
shown on leaving the town earlier that afternoon. 

The person from whom he had parted remained at the 
side of the highway gazing after him. His attitude was 
that of profound reverie. 

In the distance twinkled the lights of the town, and 
now and then a sound came across the intervening space, 
like a shout or call, or the crowing of some cock that had 
lost track of the hours. 

Suddenly a wagon rattled over the road, coming from 
the back country. The man instinctively stepped aside 
to allow it to pass, but paid no further attention. 


BANK BURGLARY. 


189 


“Say, mister, is that your team back there? If it is, 
you’d better make a move, for the old horse has been 
standing there for hours, and it begins to look as if some- 
thing’s wrong.” 

The farmer who called to the other sat in an ordinary 
country wagon, and spoke in a voice loud enough to be 
heard a hundred yards away. The individual addressed 
looked up at him, but what was said made little or no 
impression on him. He did not answer, and the farmer 
drove on, wondering what strange business could be 
afoot so near his own home. 

Night had now fully come, and the moon was shining. 
The person in the road unfolded his arms, heaved a deep 
sigh and turned into the woods. He was following the 
path over which he had already passed a couple of times. 
He could not do so at a quick pace, for the moonlight, 
faint of itself, did not penetrate the dense vegetation 
overhead, and the trail was so indistinctly marked that 
he could keep to it only by continual care and caution. 

Several times he was forced to pause and strike a luci- 
fer match, which he hel'd over his head as he peered for- 
ward ; but he must have been familiar with the course, 
for not once did he go far astray. The distance was not 
great, and ere long he arrived at the forest opening al- 
ready described. 

The moon was now of help, and he advanced straight 
across the natural clearing to the rock beside which he 
was standing at the moment he discovered Frank Dixon 
watching him. 

There was only a momentary pause, when he com- 
pleted that which he set out to do hours before. Stooping 
down, he ran his arm beneath the rock in quest of some- 
thing. 

The next moment he straightened up, pressed his hands 
to his temples and staggered like a drunken man. 

“Heaven help me! it is gone!” he wailed, barely sav- 
ing himself from falling. Then, wildly hoping that some 
mistake had been made, he sprang back to the rock. 

“No, no ; it cannot be ! it cannot be ! it was a mistake 
—yes, a mistake. Of what was I thinking?” 


190 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


He was now furiously scrambling with liis hand under 
the great stone, as though he would overturn the enor- 
mous weight in his fierce effort to find something. 

“No, it is gone ! it has been stolen ! God save me ! I 
am ruined ! I am ruined !” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“i’ve got it! ” 

It will be recalled that Kneeland Ely remained behind 
the sheltering trunk of the tree until the two men whose 
movements he was spying disappeared in the direction 
of the highway. Then, instead of following them, he 
took the opposite course and arrived at the natural clear- 
ing already referred to. 

Night had not yet fully come, and he paused on the 
edge of the opening, carefully surveying the ground in 
front. He observed nothing of any one, though that did 
not wholly remove the vague misgiving that had come 
during the last few minutes. 

“There can be no doubt that something is hidden under 
that rock, and he was about to bring it forth at the mo- 
ment he made the discovery that another was watching 
Iiim. That caused a change of purpose, and he made for 
the young man with the intention of giving him a caning. 

“I can’t understand why he didn’t. Dixon must pos- 
sess a persuasive tongue thus quickly to soothe his wrath. 
But the appearance of the other is so striking that he may 
have attracted the notice of some one else beside the 
bookkeeper and watchman — Well, I declare !” 

It was at this juncture that the ver}~ peril Ely had in 
mind appeared. Two forms were observed moving on the 
other side of the opening, and it hardly needed a second 
glance to identify them as a couple of those pests of civ- 
ilization known as tramps. 

“They have seen the other and suspect the business 
that brought him here,” was the conclusion of the watch- 
man ; “but they do not know where to look for the pack- 
age. Had the visitor taken it from under the rock, they 
would have robbed him of it ; but they expect him back, 
and then will have a chance to get it.” 


BANK BURGLARY. 


191 


Convinced that he was right in his surmise, the ques- 
tion arose as to what he should do under the new condi- 
tions. 

Should he also wait and warn the imperiled man? 
That would never do, for the ensuing complication would 
overturn all the plans he had formed ; the whole scheme, 
in fact, would be spoiled. 

Should he wait until the impatience of the tramps led 
them to begin the search, and then take the package, or 
whatever it might be, from them? 

That would be equally absurd, for, though a powerful 
man himself, and skilled in the art of self-defense, the 
task of overcoming two such lusty miscreants could not 
be easy. Possibly it would go the other way, unless he 
appealed to his revolver. That was likely to bring about 
unpleasant consequences, to say nothing of the possibility 
that the vagrants possessed weapons of their own. 

Manifestly there was but one thing to do. This re- 
quired nerve, but the reader need not be reminded that 
Kneeland Ely was not lacking in that respect. 

He emerged from the shadow of the wood and made 
his way at a timid pace toAvard the rock which was such 
an interesting object to three persons just at this time. 
He paused every few steps and glanced furtively about, 
as if afraid of being noticed. He showed no knowledge 
of the presence of the tramps, who, on catching sight of 
him, made haste to dodge down out of view. 

But Kneeland Ely required no one to tell him that two 
pairs of bleared eyes were peering from behind the bowl- 
ders and eagerly watching his every movement. He 
could do nothing that would not be seen by them. 

Every feature of the forest opening was fixed so clearly 
in his mind that it was impossible to make a mistake, 
even in the gathering twilight. He halted at the precise 
spot where he had seen the other man stand, when about 
to stoop for a purpose that was self-evident to the watcher. 
With a hurried glance around, Ely dropped upon his 
knees and pushed his hand under the rock. A large, 
clear space was there, so much so that his hand had con- 
siderable play ; but only a few seconds of groping Avere 


192 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


necessar}', when it came in contact with something which 
caused a quick throbbing of his heart. 

He recognized the touch of paper, and, with a sup- 
pressed exclamation, drew out an oblong package five or 
six inches thick, somewhat longer and not so wide. 

Instead‘of being tied with cords, it was bound around 
.repeatedly with strong elastic bands, which held what- 
ever was within in the smallest possible compass. 

It was hardly the time, in view of what he knew about 
the tramps, for him to make an examination, but he 
could not resist the temptation. He deftly shifted 
enough of the bands to allow him to pull away the heavy 
paper from one end, and to gain a glimpse of what was 
within. 

He saw something which told him the story : it was 
the figure “1000.” He raised the end and looked at sev- 
eral other of the oblong slips. The same thrilling sight 
greeted him, together with the other scrollwork and or- 
namentation which identified each as a thousand-dollar 
bill! 

“I’ve got it!” gasped the finder; “here is the whole 
hundred thousand dollars that was stolen from the Ber- 
wyck Bank several nights ago !” 

What man in the situation of Kneeland Ely would 
have retained control of himself? He had been trained 
in the hard school of experience, but for a minute or two 
he trembled like an aspen and was hardly able to stand. 

Then the recollection of the two vagrants crouching 
among the rocks and bowlders brought his self-possession 
back, and his nerves became like wires of steel. 

The package of money was a big one, but he could 
handle it without difficulty. Under his flimsy outer coat 
was another one, strong and well made. Opening the 
front of this, he shoved the bundle within and carefully 
buttoned the garment over it. 

As he anticipated, he had hardly faced about, with the 
appearance of retracing his own steps, when the tramps 
rose from behind the bowlder where they had been hiding. 
A collision was inevitable, and Ely was prepared for it. 
He paused as if startled, and stood still as they approached. 


BANK BURGLARY. 193 

' t • 

“Howdy?” called the one who was a step or two in ad- 
vance of the other. “Have you found anything, pard?” 

“W-ha-t do — do you mean?” asked Ely. with well- 
assumed ^timidity ; “have you lost anything?” 

“D reckon Ihev; I put a package of diamonds under 
that rock this morning. They was sent to me by the 
Duke de Sassy from England last week. I was sorry to 
see you come up, run your hand un,der the stone and 
draw ’em out. Didn’t you know it’s wery wrong to be 
so thoughtless about other people’s, property ?” 

“I haven’t got any diamonds,” replied the farmer- 
looking individual, recoiling a step or two to prevent 
their coming too near. As he did so, he reached down 
his hand and rested it on his revolver. 

‘Tut, tut, my little man! Didn't your mother teach 
you that it’s wrong to tell fibs? I seen you draw out the 
diamonds from under the rock only a few minutes ago.” 

“There’s where you’re mistaken,” replied Ely, with 
the manner of one who was sure that the error would 
relieve him of any further annoyance from the tramps. 

“How is that, pard?” 

“It wasn’t diamonds at all. I took a peep into the 
package and saw it was money — all hew bills and every 
one of ’em worth a thousand dollars. Why, I’ve got 
enough here to make me and all my friends rich for the 
rest of my life.” 

“Well, pal'd, I was joking about the diamonds; I 
knowed it was money. That’s where Bill and me keep 
our bank account, but we won’t arrest and put you in 
jail for burglarizing our bank. We’ll be kinder to you 
than that, and let you go if you’ll hand over that boodle 
right off ! ’ ’ 

“I shan’t doit.” 

“Then we’ll hey to make you, that’s all, and you’ll be 
sorry that you ever refused.” 

The couple were edging toward Ely with a purpose too 
manifest to be mistaken, and he saw it would not do to 
trifle longer. With a lightning-like sweep of his arm he 
leveled his weapon in the faces 6f the couple, with the 
words : “One step nearer, and I’ll shoot !” 


194 


THE GREAT BER WYCK 


The moon had risen while this little affair was going 
on in the forest opening. The foremost tramp had gath- 
ered his muscles for a leap upon the supposed farmer, 
when he recoiled at sight of the gleaming pistol, whose 
muzzle almost touched his nose. 

More than that, one of the chambers was discharged, 
the bullet nipping his ear, while a second whizzed behind 
the crimson countenance of his companion, just behind 
him. 

“That’s to let you know I’m r3ady for you,’’ remarked 
Ely ; “the next time I’ll shoot to kill.” 

The terrified miscreants stumbled on their hands and 
knees in their desperate efforts to get out of range. 

“Don’t shoot! don’t shoot!” called out the leader; 
“we won’t hurt you; we was only in fun !” 

Ely did not stir, but stood with foot slightly advanced 
and his weapon at a dead level. The tramps scrambled 
to their feet, ducked their heads, with their hands held 
about their ears, as if to ward off the expected shots, and 
dashed beyond reach with such ludicrous haste that their 
conqueror shook with laughter. 

“I think I’ve seen men surprised, but never a couple 
more stirred than they.” 

When they were out of sight Ely turned about, still 
holding his pistol ready for instant Use, and started from 
the spot. 

His intention at first was to follow the trail over a 
portion of which he had made his way thither ; but he 
decided that it was more prudent to move among the 
trees. True, he had given the tramps the biggest scare of 
their lives, but they would soon recover, and were not 
likely to yield the chance of securing such an immense 
sum of money as they knew he had with him. They 
would steal through the woods, on the watch to leap 
upon and throttle him. Besides, their panid and flight 
were no proof that they had no weapons themselves. 

That this precaution was wise on » his part was proven 
within the succeeding few minutes. 

The gloom beneath the trees made the work of picking 
his way difficult and tedious. Occasionally, despite his 


BANK BURGLARY. 


195 


care, he bumped against the trunk of a tree, and once an 
obtruding limb passed beneath his chin and almost lifted 
him off his feet. He stopped, and then heard faintly but 
distinctly the sound of stealthy footsteps behind him. 

“I won’t miss them nex;t time, if they dare attack 
me,” he muttered, stationing himself close to the nearest 
tree which he could find in the darkness. His weapon 
was still in his hand, and he was never more in earnest 
with any resolve. 

But the tramps were cunning. They had guided their 
own movements by the faint footfalls on the leaves in 
front, and their cessation warned them of their danger. 
They stopped, too, and waited for him to resume his walk. 

Brave as was Kneeland Ely, he had enough wisdom to 
appreciate his own peril. These men might shoot him 
down without giving him a chance of defending himself. 
It would be reckless to incur such a risk. He resorted 
to stratagem to defeat it. 

With the utmost care be began a withdrawal from the 
spot, changing his course so that his enemies could not 
keep track of him, provided they did not hear the rus- 
tling leaves. 

It was not necessary for him to go far before resuming 
the direct course to the highway. The straining ear de- 
tected no sound like that which had warned him of his 
peril, and he became confident that he had thrown the 
vagrants off his trail. 

This was unquestionably a great point accomplished, 
for when he repeatedly stopped and listened, he failed to 
hear anything alarming. Finally, he dismissed all ap- 
prehension and advanced with less care than before. 

This, we repeat, was a great point secured, but, with 
all of Kneeland Ely’s sagacity, he fell into an unsuspect- 
ed dilemma. The several changes of direction, with no 
beaten path or landmark to guide him, resulted in a con- 
fusion of the points of the compass, as is inevitably the 
case with the. most experienced ranger of the woods. 

When certain that he had traveled far enough to reach 
the highway where he had left his horse and wagon, he 


196 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 

was still among the trees, enveloped in gloom and with 
no idea of where he stood. 

“I believe I am lost!” he said, with a shiver of dread, 
“and, if that is so, there’s no chance of finding my way 
out before morning. ’ ’ 

While the prospect was anything but pleasant, there 
was nothing in it, after all, to cause misgiving. The 
night was crisp and cool, but he was well clothed, and 
he grimly thought that any one with a hundred thousand 
dollars in bank bills reposing against his chest could not 
long feel uncomfortable. 

He tramped three times as far as the distance from the 
forest opening, and found himself still in the woods. He 
halted once more and listened. 

“Those fellows are gone, that’s one comfort. I wonder 
whether they also went astray? That charger of mine is 
securing a good rest, but he must begin to feel hungry 
by this time and puzzled to keep the run of matters.” 

He took some consolation in smoking a cigar. By 
keeping the glowing tip free of ashes he was able to use 
it as a tiny lamp, now and then, and thus saved himself 
some unwelcome experiences. But the weed smoked at 
such a vigorous pace was soon exhausted, and growing 
tired of the enjoyment, he flung away the stump. 

“I will give up after trying it a little longer — Helloa !” 

It was the neigh of a horse that caused this exclama- 
tion. It sounded to his left, not in the direction, as it 
seemed, of the highway ; but, remembering his mistake, 
he turned toward the point, and had not gone far when, 
to his delight, he debouched into the road which he had 
sought so long in vain. 

He could hardly believe his good fortune, but when 
the neigh was repeated, and, a few rods away, he identi- 
fied the horse and wagon with which he had come from 
Berwyck hours before, all doubt vanished. 

“That’s ( my own blooded steed !” he called, feeling, in 
his gratitude, like flinging his arms about the animal’s 
neck. “I am more pleased to meet you. Longfellow; 
than if you were my long-lost brother. ’ ’ 

So far as could be perceived in the darkness, the beast 


BANK BURGLARY. 


197 


had not attempted to stir from his position since being 
tied hours before. But, as Ely remembered, the interval 
had been long enough for him to become hungry, and he 
was eager to get back to his stable. 

He was quickly unfastened, turned about, and the 
nian climbed into the wagon and took the reins and whip 
in hand. There was no need, however, of the latter, for, 
to the amazement of the driver, the animal instantly 
broke into a loping trot without urging, and seemed 
disposed to keep it up the entire distance, especially 
where the road was downhill. 

Shortly after turning into the main highway Ely dis- 
cerned a man ahead of him, walking quite rapidly. By 
this^time the moon was well up in the sky, and he could 
see so distinctly that he recognized him as the one that had 
stood in the clearing and was about to take the package 
of money from under the rock when he desisted because 
of the presence of Bookkeeper Dixon. 

This individual, having partly rallied from his shock, 
was hurrying toward town. He was in the middle of 
the road, but, on hearing the rattle of the wagon behind 
him, stepped asidejto allow it to pass. 

As he came opposite, Ely checked his horse. 

“Won’t you ride?’’ he asked, looking down on the man. 

“No ; I thank you. I prefer to walk. ” 

“I am going straight to Berwyck, and it will save you 
some time, for this animal, as you can see, is a trotter.” 

Thus urged, the footman accepted the invitation, climb- 
ing nimbly over the wheel and taking a seat alongside of 
Ely, who once more started his horse on a trot. 

It seemed like running a great risk, for how could Ely 
know his passenge£ would not recognize him? Brief as 
had been his stay in Berwyck, he had been around the 
place long enough for many persons to see and learn who 
he was. 

It need hardly be said, however, that when he assumed 
the guise of a farmer, on applying at the livery stable 
for this wretched turnout, he donned something in the 
nature of a disguise besides his shabby garments. The 
dilapidated hat which covered the head had a quantity of 


198 THE GREAT BERWYCK 

frowsy, sandy hair sewed withiii,' whicfi hung about his 
shoulders ; and, after reaching the country, he slipped a 
tuft of whiskers over his chin so deftly adjusted that the 
trick would not be noticed, except under close inspection 
by daylight. : 

In consonance with his assumed character, the watch- 
man imparted a twang and peculiar accent to his voice 
while speaking to hfs passenger. He indulged in some 
enlightening remarks about the weather and crop pros- 
pects, and exerted himself the best he knew how to draw 
the man into conversation. But the latter was in no 
mood for anything of the kind. It would have been 
strange, after his soul- Stirring experience, had he re- 
sponded to the remarks of his companion. His responses, 
when there were any, were so curt that the pretended 
farmer soon gave up the attempt. 

“He has been back to the rock under which he hid the 
hundred thousand dollars, and knows that it is lost,” was 
the thought of the driver; “but how would hd feel if he 
knew the whole sum was within a few inches of him this 
very minute?” 

It was a strange situation indeed ! 

Arrived at the outskirts of the town, the passenger re- 
quested Ely to allow him to get out. He courteously 
thanked the supposed farmer for his kindness and disap- 
peared along the main street, while the driver turned in 
the direction of the livery stable, where, after considera- 
ble difficulty, he had managed to hire the team. 

“You were gone so long,” remarked the owner, “that 
I was about to send out a search party.” 

“I know why you did not.” y 

“What was the reason?” 

“This outfit isn’t worth the five dollars’ deposit you 
required before you hired it to me. You knew I would 
be back after the balance. ’ ’ 

Ely affected indignation at the trick that had been 
played on him, and did not tarry long at the place. It 
was not very late in the evening, and he managed to re- 
store himself to something like his original appearance 
without attracting attention to the process. His old hat, 


BANK BURGLARY. 


199 


with his extra head of hair and the chin-whiskers, were 
slipped into his valise ; he smoothed down his trousers 
over his boot-legs, and folded the shabby coat and carried 
it over his arm. 

This was so effective that when he presented himself 
at his boarding-place he was admitted without question. 

It will not be denied that Kneeland Ely had been 
through a unique experience ; enough to keep almost any 
person’s brain in a whirl. We have shown that once 
that night he lost his self-command, though he quickly 
regained it. But the long tramp through the woods, 
when, but for a happy chance he would not have found 
his way out until morning, and the ride back to Berwyck 
had given him opportunity to recover his poise, so that, 
when he climbed to his room and locked his door behind 
him, he was as cool as when sitting in the apartment of 
Pixley Fagan at the hotel and discussing this business. 

He turned up the gas to a full head, and set a chair 
against the door, so that no one could see the interior 
through the keyhole. When certain he was entirely 
alone, he unbuttoned his coat, drew out the package of 
brown paper bound around with so many rubber bands 
and opened and counted the contents. 

There was exactly one hundred thousand dollars. This 
was the large amount stolen from the Berwyck Bank, 
and here it was in his hands, ready to be restored to the 
rightful owners. The case had been pushed through to 
a speedy conclusion indeed. 

He recalled the peculiar circumstances under which 
he had recovered it. If lie chose, he might retain every 
dollar and no suspicion could ever attach to him. Not a 
living soul beside himself knew that he had visited the 
lonely section and taken it from under the rock where it 
was hidden. Even if the tramps chose to tell their story, 
it could not turn the eye of the law to him. 

The farmer, who was the chief actor in .that little 
drama, had gone out of existence. 


200 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ I COME TO PLEAD FOR MERbY.” 

But, if Kneeland Ely sat for a long time, his head 
bowed in distracting thought, it was not because any- 
thing in the nature of temptation disturbed him. 

He was an honest man. He may have reflected how 
easily he could appropriate the large sum of money to 
his own use, but it was not the first time he had done so, 
in his long and eventful experience, and never had it 
been with even a momentary inclination to do a dishon- 
orable act. Nevertheless, his meditation was of a most 
painful nature. 

“The last thread of doubt is removed. In the face of 
the overwhelming evidence I cherished a weak hope that 
the end might be different. If the trusted family phy- 
sician hears many secrets that lower his estimate of hu- 
man nature, the detective is forced to go through the 
same melancholy experience. I am and always will be 
a poor man, but I would give all I have in the world 
were this only a dream ; but, alas ! it cannot be.” 

He rose from his chair, carefully replaced the large 
bills in the package, wrapped them about with the same 
coarse paper, strung the rubber bands as they were be- 
fore, and then placed the bundle under his pillow, beside 
his revolver, the empty chambers of which had been re- 
charged. Then he retired and slept soundly until morn- 
ing. 

Having made his breakfast, he went round to the ho- 
tel, where he knew Detective Fagan was anxiously 
awaiting him. When the door was locked and they were 
alone Ely asked : 

“Have you any news' to communicate?” 

“Nothing; I spent the evening, or rather apart of it, 
in completing my preparations for leaving Berwyck.” 

“We shall both go away to-day, having finished the 
saddest task either of us ever performed. ’ ’ 

“I strolled by the houses of Dixon and President Dil- 
lingham last night, but think neither of them was]|at 
home. ’ ’ 


BANK BURGLARY. 


201 


“No; they were both absent.” 

“I am waiting, Len, for the particulars.” 

Thereupon Kneelancl Ely, beginning at the point when 
he assumed the character of an innocent, unsuspecting 
farmer, driving hcnieward with a miserable animal, re- 
lated everything that had taken place while he was play- 
ing that part, and with which the reader is already fa- 
miliar. 

“There is the whole story, and the question is, what 
shall be the next step?” he added. 

“We set out £o recover the one hundred thousand dol- 
lars, and it has been done. The parenthetical episode, 
as you call it, of the four burglars has resulted badly — 
that is, for them. Since they are disposed of, they disap- 
pear from the question.” 

“Yes ; no further thought need be given to them.” 

“The money having been recovered, all that remains 
is to restore it to the bank.” 

“There lies the difficulty: how shall it be done?” 

“Is not the matter a simple one?” 

“Suppose you or I go down there and hand the pack- 
age to President Dillingham and whoever of the direct- 
ors may be there, what sort of story shall go with the 
act in the way of explanation?” 

“Simply say that we have succeeded in recovering the 
funds, but we cannot give particulars.” 

“That course was so direct that it was the one that in- 
stantly occurred to me, but fatal objections are in the 
way.” 

“Why not tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing 
but the truth?” 

“In most of the affairs of life that is the safest rule, 
but it has its exceptions, and this is one of them. Reflect, 
and you will see the consequences are likely to be of the 
gravest ^character. 

Detective Fagan did reflect, with the result of saying : 

“You are so much clearer-headed than I that I prefer 
the directions shall come from you.” 

Ely arose and thoughtfully walked across the floor. 


202 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“One of us must go to the house of President Dilling- 
ham and see him alone ; that is to be the first step.” 

“You are the man to - do that.” 

“I think not; you came here in response to his request 
for a detective. He has known you as such all the way 
through. I played the part of watchman for the bank.” 

“And did it to perfection.” 

“That is neither here nor there ; he still looks upon me 
as nothing more than a watchman. That fact will serve 
as a barrier between us.” 

“Which, however, can be readily remdVed.” 

“None the less it will preclude or render more difficult 
the feeling of absolute confidence that must exist between 
Dillingham and the one who takes the money to him.” 

“I am ready to do as you wish.” 

‘ The sooner begun the sooner finished — Helloa !” 

A knock sounded on the door. Detective Fagan un- 
locked and opened it, as Ely shrank back out of sight. 

A colored boy stood outside with a card, which he 
handed to the officer. The latter glanced at it, and tell- 
ing the lad to wait outside, closed the door again. 

“What do you think of that ?” asked Fagan, passing 
the card to his friend, who read : 

“Miss Mina Crosslands.” 

Underneath her name the young lady had written in 
pencil : 

“ Must see you at once on a matter of the utmost im- 
portance. With your permission , I will call on you in 
your room.” 

“This is a strange request,” remarked Fagan, lookipg 
at the other for his explanation. 

“I see nothing strange in it. I am not surprised ; I 
would be more surprised if some such request was not 
made by her. ’ ’ 

“But she asks to come to my room, here, instead of 
sending for me to go to her house, as I would have been 
glad to do. ” 

“You can readily understand why she doesn’t wish you 
to call there — as yet." 

“Shall I send for her?” • 


BANK BURGLARY. 


2oa # 


“By all means, a.nd do not keep her waiting.’’ 

“And what shall you do in the meantime?” 

“Withdraw to my room. She hasn’t asked to see me, 
and would resent my presence. ’ ’ 

“Don't you wish to hear what passes betweep us?” 

‘ ‘It would be interesting, but there is no necessity ; you 
can tell me all that it is worth while to know. ” 

Fagan stepped to the door and directed the waiting 
boy to show up the lady. Ely slipped out to his own room. 

The detective used the minute or two at his disposal in 
putting his apartment in the best shape he could to re- 
ceive a lady. He had tjarely time to complete the work 
when a timid knock sounded on the door. 

He drew it back and bowed low to her who stood be- 
fore him. They had met often enough to feel acquainted. 

One glance at that countenance told the anguish that 
had impelled the visitor to this step. She was pale, and 
her lip quivered despite the brave effort she made to 
repress her agitation. 

“Will you be kind enough to step inside?” asked Fa- 
gan, a little embarrassed at making the request. 

“Thank you,” she replied, in a voice hardly above a 
whisper, acting on the invitation. 

“Shall I close the door?” he asked, hesitating with his 
hand on the knob. 

“Do so. please, and lock it.” 

Nothing less than desperate urgency could impel a lady 
of her refinement to make this request, awarO as she was 
that it was liable to cruel criticism. 

But when hope, despair, disgrace, ruin, death, life are 
all tugging at one’s heartstrings there can be no hesita- 
tion. 

Like a true gentleman, Detective Fagan promptly 
obeyed, for to have withstood her, even for a moment, 
would have. implied a distrust of her motives. Then he 
placed a chair near the middle of the room and bowed 
her to it. He seated himself opposite. Both could look 
straight into each other’s faces during the interview. 

“Are we alone?” was her first question, accompanied 
by an apprehensive glance about the room. 


204 THE GREAT BERWICK 

“Entirely so,” was his reassuring reply. 

“And no one can overhear what is said?” 

“Not unless we shout our words, which I hardly think 
either of us proposes to do. ’ ’ 

It was the manner more than the sentences of Fagan 
which reassured the young lady. She had come with the 
intention of trusting him fully, as indeed it was indis- 
pensable she should doi, and her confidence in the man 
increased after she had ‘crossed the Rubicon* ’ and seated 
herself in his room. 

“Mr. Fagan, you were surprised to receive my card?” 

“Yes ; I will not deny that it startled me at first, but I 
may add that when I came to reflect my surprise passed 
away. I expected to receive some word from you to-day. ” 

‘ ' But not in the shape of a request to be admitted to 
your room?” 

“Hardly that, but reflection again showed me the best 
of reason for that request. I would have felt honored in 
calling at your home, but you could not have guaranteed 
that we would be wholly alone there. There is no cer- 
tainty of privacy in the parlor of the hotel, and it was 
imperative that you should see me here ; this is the only 
place. That, surely, is sufficient explanation.*’ 

“May I ask,” he added, “before you make known your 
errand, whether you are prepared to trust me fully?” 

U I am resolved to do so.” 

“Thank* you. Be assured that I will respect your con- 
fidence to the last degree.” 

“Do you know my errand?” 

“Yes, and if it is any encouragement, let me assure 
you further I knoiv all.” 

She looked him in the face, and in a low. tremulous 
voice, hardly above a whisper, said : 

“Then I come to plead for mercy.” 

1 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

“AND SO HE LEFT THEM.” 

Nothing could have exceeded the gentle courtesy and 
delicate consideration which Detective Fagan showed 
toward Miss Crosslands during this most painful inter- 


BANK BURGLARY. 


205 


view of her life. To convince her that he was truthful 
in declaring that he knew all , as he had asserted, he told 
everything he had learned concferning the robbery of the 
Berwyck Bank. 

Then when she started to make the plea for mercy, as 
she said was her errand, he raised his hand in protest. 

“Say no more, Miss Crosslands ; it shall be as you wish. ” 

“Oh, how shall I ever thank you?” she exclaimed, her 
face aglow with happiness. “I shall bless you as long as 
I live ! Can it be time? Can it be? cdn it be?” 

He repeated his assurances, and a few minuses later 
escorted her downstairs, saying, as he bade her good-by, 
that her uncle would receive an important call that after- 
noon. 

“And now,” he asked, as he rejoined Kneeland Ely 
and related what had passed, “shall it be you or I that is 
to visit President Dillingham?” 

“You are the man.” 

“As you think best. You will stay in Berwyck until 
the thing i§ through?” 

“Yes ; I may be needed, though I doubt whether Dil- 
lingham will care to meet me when he comes to know all. ’ ’ 

It was not until afternoon that Detective Fagan pre- 
sented himself at the handsome residence of President 
Dillingham, he having taken the precaution first to send 
a messenger with the request for a private and important 
interview, and ask dig the banker to name the hour fqr 
the meeting. 

The gentleman received him himself, in the hall, and 
led the way to the library, whose door was closed, he 
having instructed his niece and servants to permit no 
one under any pretext to disturb them. 

The officer’s experienced eye was quick to note the 
pale face and nervous manner of the hosL 

He could not but know the subject which was to form 
the theme of the interview, but it was impossible to con- 
jecture all that was coming. 

Nothing was to be gained by circumlocution, and, after 
the few briefest preliminaries, Detective Fagan came to 
the point. 


206 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


“Mr. Dillingham, as you are aware, less than a week 
has passed since the robbery of thq Berwyck Bank. One 
hundred thousand dollars was taken from its big safe and 
carried away by some one who. it was evident, knew the 
combination by which the lock was opened. That much 
being stated, let me relate a little fable. 

“There was once a man in middle life, comparatively 
wealthy, respected, and with the fullest confidence of 
the community in which he lived. Not a whisper of 
scandal had ever tarnished his name, and to all who 
knew him he was- the synonym of honesty and absolute 
integrity. 

“There are many who claim that no human being is 
proof against temptation. It is simply a question of the 
degree necessary to conquer them. That so many of us 
commit no dishonest act is because we have not been 
tempted to the point that would insure our downfall. 

“It is a generally accepted creed, also, that no person 
becomes bad all at once. The act which causes him to 
cross the line may be a sudden one, but the changes in 
his own nature which bring it about have been going on 
for years ; in other words, it is simply the fruit of the 
planting made long before. 

“Be that as it may, it will not be denied that there are 
many instances in which a man yields without being 
conscious of this preliminary struggle or change. Like 
the reformed drunkard, moments of mortal weakness 
come, and he is attacked at the most unexpected times, 
and berore he has a chance to gird himself for the con- 
flict. He does that which he would not have done an 
hour before nor an hour after ; the temptation came un- 
announced, and he fell. 

“Without attempting to spin any fine theory, I am sure 
you will catch my meaning and understand the case I 
have in mind — ” 

“Have done with this nonsense ! Stop seeking for some 
excuse for me ; there is none. Call things by their right 
names and drop that silly fable, as you call it ; use plain 
English.” 

“Very well.” calmly remarked the officer: “I will not 


207 


BAYK BURGLARY. 

« 

mince words nor spare your feelings. My language, 
therefore, will be pointed, -and you must not complain if 
I hit hard. ’ ’ 

“You cannot hit half as hard as I deserve, ” grimly re- 
sponded the banker, who kept his eyes fiied on the coun- 
tenance of the other. 

“I have not attempted, in putting forward my theory, 
to shield you against your own judgment, which is a 
harsh one. While I can find a palliation for your steal- 
ing, I can find none for that which preceded and accom- 
panied it. I never knew anything baser nor more treach- 
erous. 5 ’ 

“There was never anything as base and treacherous,” 
interjected the banker, more merciless to himself than 
was his visitor. 

“Very few, that is true ; but let that pass for the pres- 
ent and keep to tl 3 hard facts. When y ou saw the one 
hundred thousand dollars placed in the vault of the bank 
(I believe you put it there yourself in the presence of the 
cashier), your temptation came. You, who had scarcely 
ever entertained a thought of dishonesty, now decided to 
steal that money. It was the supreme crisis of your 
moral life, and you fell. 

“But, with all the facilities at your command for doing 
this great wrong, you saw the necessity of 'covering your 
tracks,’ as the expression goes. You displayed the cun- 
ning of the most accomplished scoundrel that is now 
serving time in the penitentiary. ’ ’ 

There was no mistaking this language, but the man at 
whom it was aimed compressed his lips and nodded his 
head, saying: 

“Now you are uttering truth.” 

“You had every facility, I say, but even then it would 
not do for you to make a blunder at any point. The 
watchman, Walker Otter, was incorruptibly honest. 
Even if he were not you wanted no partner in your 
shameful crime, for a partner would compel a division 
of the plunder, and that touched your mean nature. Fur- 
thermore, you would be ,at the mercy of a second party, 
which is always dangerous. ' 


208 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 

m 

“Otter has been troubled with rheumatism for years, 
and, as he admitted, has been accustomed to spend part 
of his nights at the bank in slumber. But he was liable 
to awake, and it would not do for you to be seen,, even 
though he had no right to question your actions. So you 
gave him a bottle of medicine for his rheumatism, with 
instructions to take it early in the evening. He did so ; 
it contained a drug which forced him to sleep like alog 
for ten hours — ” 

“How do you know that?” interrupted President Dil- 
lingham, starting with alarm. “It is true, but how came 
you to know it?” 

“Easily enough ; the fact that the man slept so soundly 
was suspicious, and he was questioned. He still had the 
bottle of medicine which you procured for him. Its odor 
betrayed the laudanum; but lie had no suspicion, nor 
i ill he ever have any of the trick played on him.” 

“Where is the bottle now?” 

“Smashed to fragments, and the contents gone.” 

“Thanks — thanks for doing that.” 

‘ It was not I who did it, but another ; one of the truest 
friends you ever had. He managed it so well that that 
thick skull of Walker Otter will never have room for an 
inkling of the truth.” 

“But who is this man — this friend, as you call him?” 

“One moment. Having fixed matters with Otter, you 
went to the bank at midnight, opened the outer door 
with your own key, did the same to the big safe or vault, 
took out the one hundred thousand dollars and went home. 

“In order to hide your tracks the more effectually you 
applied to Mr. Leonidas Wyxtree, chief of the National 
Detective Agency, for help in tracing the burglars and 
recovering the funds. You supposed he sent but one de- 
tective here— myself— when, in fact, he sent a couple.” 

“Who was the second?” asked the astonished bank 
president. 

“He came to you as Kneeland Ely, highly recom- 
mended by a banker friend of yours— so highly recom- 
mended. indeed, that you engaged him off-hand as 
watchman.’ 


BANK BURGLARY. 209 

“And he is a detective?” repeated the amazed host. 

“Rather,” replied Fagan, with a smile, “and a pretty 
good one, too, for he is Chief Leonidas Wyxtree himself. ” 

President Dillingham started, as well he might, at this 
announcement, for no suspicion of Kneeland Ely had 
ever entered his thoughts. 

Detective Fagan paused a moment that the full effect 
might not be lost, and then proceeded : 

“Chief Wyxtree is my superior in every respect, and 
he had been on the ground but a short time when he sus- 
pected the truth ; that is, that only one person was con- 
cerned in the robbery of the Berwyck Bank, and that per- 
son was its trusted president. 

“It was one thing, however, to hold the suspicion and 
quite another to prove it. To establish that proof be- 
came his special work and province. ’ ’ 

“What first directed suspicion to me ?” asked the host, 
growing more interested in the narrative itself, even 
though it scarified him so fiercely. 

“Several things. The first, perhaps, resulted from 
that fact that you were one of the two that were known 
to have the power to do what was' done, though it was 
possible, and indeed quite probable, that the bookkeeper, 
Frank Dixon, had managed to secure the secret of the 
safe combination. If so, one of three persons must be 
the criminal. 

“A study of those three individuals led us, at first, to 
suspect Dixon, but the chief was not fully satisfied.. I 
may say that when you first called on the new wat'ch- 
mah I was with him, and hid in the closet cf the direct- 
ors’ room. We were in the front of the building when 
we saw the white gleam of the letter as it was pushed 
into view. Wyxtree hurriedly opened the door and told 
me to follow the person whose stealthy footsteps were 
plainly heard. I tried to do so, but was a minute too late. ” 

“Do you know who that man was?” asked the banker, 
with a grim smile. 

“Yes; I am now talking to him. Neither of us saw 
you, but though you ran very fast for a man of your 
years, the chief afterward learned your identity. 


210 


THE GKEAT BEEWYCK 


' Once we suspected that Dixon was associated with 
you in the crime, but that letter placed us right on that 
point.” 

“How?” 

“In the first place, you began to grow uneasy over the 
fact that I was on the ground and at work. You pro- 
posed the compromise, hoping you could bring it about 
and secure the majority of the plunder without further 
danger to yourself. But it is fortunate for you, Mr. Dil- 
lingham, that your proposition was not acted upon. Your 
discovery would have followed beyond all doubt and be- 
come known to the whole community. It was for that 
reason that Chief Wyxtree suppressed it. He thought 
you were too good a man to be sacrificed. ’ ’ 

“Great heavens ! why should he think that 9” 

“He has more heart than most people suppose. You 
will recall that I came here some days ago with the re- 
quest for a specimen of Dixon’s handwriting. You gave 
it to me, but with it was a sample of your penmanship 
which the chief instructed me to be sure to get.” 

“I never dreamed that you had any purpose in asking 
for that draft of my letter. ’ ’ 

“That obtained, the chief and myself sat down and 
made a careful study and comparison of the two, and 
the disguised hand in the misspelled missive that was 
shoved by you under the door of the bank. The conclu- 
sion that I reached was that Bookkeeper Dixon wrote the 
proposition, ostensibly coming from the burglars. I ob- 
served many similarities between the two. 

“Chief Wyxtree, however, came to form another opin- 
ion, from which he could not be moved. He admitted 
the resemblances I pointed out, but proved that you labo- 
riously made them for the very purpose of misleading the 
experts into the belief that it was written by your book- 
keeper, anticipating as you did the test to which it was 
subjected. That, Mr. Dillingham, is the one act con- 
nected with this affair for which I can find no palliation 
nor excuse, for it has none.” 

The bank president leaned his head on his hands and 
groaned. 


211 


BANK BURGLARY. 

“There never can be any justification; no, not the 
slightest palliation. It was infamous, shameful, fiendish, 
horrible, for Frank Dixon is one of the best of men. He 
expects to marry my niece, the most amiable and lovely 
of her sex. He is, the dnly support of his widowed 
mother, a gentleman as much my superior, morally, as 
an angel is to Satan.” 

“And they have proved all you say by their conduct, 
for the two love you, and charitably believed you had 
been led to do this unspeakably wicked thing through a 
temporary aberration of mind. Your niece was more 
observant than you suspected. She attributed your 
strange conduct after the robbery to something more 
than worriment over the loss of the funds to the bank. 
She must have discovered something which led her to 
suspect the fearful truth, for in no other way can her ex- 
traordinary and sensible course be explained. ’ ’ 

Detective Fagan did not deem it best to impart more 
on this point. Had he chosen, he might have said that 
that very morning she had told of her uncle’s broken ut- 
terances in sleep, which she overheard from the adjoin- 
ing room, and which changed faint suspicion to convic- 
tion. She had seen him place a bundle under his coat and 
start out of the house. She watched him from the win- 
dow and observed that he took the direction of the open 
country. She knew he was going somewhere to hide the 
money until the hue and cry was over. 

Independent of , her, Dixon had formed the same sus- 
picion. More hopeful than she, he thought, with a char- 
ity which did more credit to his heart than to his head, 
that Mr. Dillingham would realize the enormity of his 
sin and soon restore the funds. She had made him her 
confidant, and he watched the bank to leam whether he 
did so. He was too late to see him thrust the letter under 
the door, and, returning home, he passed by her house 
and signaled that nothing had taken place. 

“Dixon was convinced,” continued the detective, “that 
you would visit the hiding-place of the money, whether 
you intended to return it or not. He followed and saw 
you when you halted by the rock, with the intention of 


212 


THE GREAT BERWYCK 


satisfying yourself that the package was where you had 
placed it. Unfortunately, however, his interest became 
so absorbing that he betrayed himself. You discovered 
him at the critical moment, and started toward him in a 
towering rage. He met you calmly and began an ear- 
nest expostulation and plea. You \yere humiliated and 
exasperated at the discovery of your perfidy, and, for a 
time, would not listen ; but he persevered. Finally, the 
good angel that is at every man’s elbow won, and you 
consented to return the funds, but demanded that he 
should leave you alone. He exacted your solemn pledge 
and went home in the early dusk of last night. ’ ’ 

“But — but,” faltered President Dillingham, “when did 
he tell you all this?” 

“Neither I nor Chief Wyxtre'e lias exchanged a, word 
with him. ’ ’ 

“How, then, did you come to know it?” 

“Have I stated the truth?” 

“Every syllable is as accurate as Holy Writ.” 

“There was a third party who witnessed your inter- 
view. He dared not draw near enough to overhear what 
was said, but it was easy for him to judge from the ac- 
tions of you two what passed between you.” 

“Where were you concealed?” 

“It was not I, but Chief Wyxtree. When you were 
left alone in the gloom and shadows of the wood the 
moral battle of your life was renewed. There were mo- 
ments when you were on the point of breaking away 
from the pledge you had given the young man. I pre- 
sume (for of this I cannot be certain) you were tempted 
to take the money and flee to some foreign country, 
there to enjoy your ill-gotten gains.” 

“You are not precisely right,” said the banker, with a 
deep sigh. “It is true I thought of that, but there never 
was a moment when I faltered in my resolution to restore 
the money to the bank. The question which I debated 
was how to do it and still keep the truth hidden from 
others. I finally decided to say that it had been left at 
my house by some stranger in disguise without any ex- 
planation. ’ ’ 


BANK BURGLARY. 


213 


“I am glad to hear that. You made your decision and 
hurried along the path in the woods to where you had 
hidden the money. Fired with your hew resolution, you 
stooped down, thrust your hand under the big rock and — ’ * 

“Jt was gone /” broke in President Dillingham, leaping 
from his chair and pacing up and down the library, over- 
come with excitement. “Yes, it had been taken by some 
one else ! The opportunity to make restitution is denied 
me. I had offended Heaven too grievously to be par- 
doned. I have suffered, and am suffering, the torments 
of the lost. But I deserve it. I ought to rot in prison, 
and I WILL ! ” 

He spoke so hurriedly that his visitor could not check 
him. With the utterance of the last agonized expression 
he dropped back limp and helpless in his chair, and 
would have swooned dead away had not the detective 
sprang to him and said : 

“Stop ! stop ! it is not so bad as that. ” 

“What do you say? Ah! why do you mock me? 
There is no hope for me. I beg you, leave me alone; I 
deserve no pity !” 

“But I insist there is hope; things are not as bad as 
you think. Calm yourself and listen to me.” 

“Am I dreaming?” he muttered. “What you say can- 
not be true.” 

“This is too grave a matter for trifling. Hear me 
through, I beg of you. After you left the opening in the 
woods with Dixon, Chief Wyxtree, who was hiding 
among the trees, and who read aright the meaning of 
your actions, went to the rock, stooped down and drew 
out the package of money, intact— *” 

“WHAT!” 

“Remain calm,” interposed the visitor, motioning him 
back in his chair. “It is as I tell you. Had he been a 
little later the money would have been taken by a couple 
of tramps prowling in the vicinity, and waiting for you 
to return. They did not think it worth while to make 
search, and so the chief was ahead of them. They tried 
to take it from him, but he was able to' stand them off 
with his revolver. ’ ’ 


214 


THE GREAT BEKWYCK 


“Strange that I did nojt see Wyxtree,” remarked Mr. 
Dillingham, trembling from head to foot. 

“You did see and speak to him.’' 

“You are mistaken there.” 

“While walking homeward* dejected and heartbroken, 
did not a farmer take you in his wagon and bring you to 
town?” 

“Yes; such is the fact.” 

“That supposed farmer was Chief Wyxtree, and when 
you t>vo sat beside each other in the little old wagon the 
package of one hundred thousand dollars was under his 
coat. ’ ’ 

“Why — why didn’t he tell me?” 

“Isn’t it better that it should be as it is? There was 
no wish to trifle with your feelings or prolong your suf- 
fering, though you deserved no consideration. ’ ’ 

“I admit it. But the money, can you tell where it is?” 

Detective Fagan had held his right hand under the 
front of his coat for the last few minutes. At this ques- 
tion he drew it out and tossed the package into the lap of 
the banker. 

“There it is ! Not one dollar is missing. Mercy !” 

This time President Dillingham fainted in reality. His 
emotion was too intense longer to be borne. 

The visitor sprang to his help, but no water was at 
hand. He hurried to the door leading to the hall. Be- 
fore he could turn the knob Miss Crosslands appeared, 
pale and agitated. 

“I heard a cry ; what does it mean?” she asked, glanc- 
ing .about the room. 

“Some water, quick.! Your uncle has swooned.” 

She darted away, and was back again instantly with a 
pitcher. Fagan took it from her hand, sprinkled some 
of the fluid in the white face and then held the pitcher 
to the pallid lips. 

Mr. Dillingham speedily revived and looked around 
with a faint wildness in his eyes. 

“Mina ! Mina !” he moaned, looking sorrowfully up in 
her pitying countenance, “can you — can you and Frank 
ever forgive me?” 


•i 


BANK BURGLARY. 215 

“Yes, we forgive you with our whole hearts. All shall 
be well, and Heaven will pardon you, as we all need par- 
don. ’ ’ 

“How can you and he doit?’’ moaned the old man, 
looking up in the face of his niece with a faint, wonder- 
ing wildness. “I do not deserve such kindness, and yet 
—yet—” 

“You were not yourself. Frank thinks so, and I know 
it ; we have believed it all along. Now, be content with 
that.” 

Thinking the detective might wish to say something 
more to her uncle, and seeing there was no longer need 
of her presence, Miss Crosslands withdrew. 

“I will call you if you should be needed,” said Fagan, 
as she cast a grateful look at him, “but I do not think 
you will b^.” 

“I may as well bid you good-by,” said Fagan. “In 
our talk over the earlier events we have forgotten those 
of a later date.” 

“To what do you refer?” asked President Dillingham, 
who had regained, to a degree, his self-control. 

“The visit of the burglars.” 

“What about them? They got nothing.” 

“No, but are as guilty as if they did. They are secure- 
ly locked up, and will remain until their trial. Wyxtree 
and I will be on hand as witnesses when needed, and they 
will all receive long terms.” 

“But — Mr. Fagan — how — shall I explain the return of 
this money?” 

“Tell the directors that the detective secured the funds, 
but he will give no further information, nor can the 
thieves be punished. I presume they are like the average 
bank director, and will be so pleased to get back the 
funds that they will care little about bringing the crimi- 
nals to book, especially as they will save a pile of money 
by not making the attempt. 

“Our office will send you an account of the services of 
Chief Wyxtree and myself; so, good-by.” 

He took the hot hand of President Dillingham, who 
looked up gratefully and murmured : 


21 C> THE GREAT BERWYCK BANK BURGLARY. 


“Heaven will reward you. I do not know how to 
thank you and your employer. ’ ’ 

“We are more than repaid by the results.” 

Miss Crosslands met him at the door and restrained 
him for a moment. Her eyes were filled with tears and 
her voice was tremulous as she, in turn, took his hand. 

“Mr. Fagan, you have brought sunlight and happiness 
to more than one heart. You have been the instrument 
of saving a human soul, and God never fails to bless the 
man or woman who does that. I thank you beyond the 
power of words to express. ’ ' 

Pixley Fagan attempted to reply, but somehow the 
words remained in his throat. He turned silently away, 
and so he left them. 

THE END. 



. A Back 

Number 

— soap. Formerly used, 
even by persons ol 
good judgment, in wash- 
ing clothes and cleaning 
house. It was hard work, 
but they had nothing bet- 
ter. Now there’s Pearl- 
ine — that is better. 

There’s less work and 
less wear. There isn’t the ruinous rub, rub, 
rub, that made all the trouble. It’s washing 
made easy — and millions of women are thankful 
for it. Back numbers ought to be cheaper, but 
ihey’re not, in this case. Nothing that’s safe to 
use costs less than Pearline. 

Beware of imitations. 338 JAMES PYLE. New York. 










































































































